


Our Immortal Longings

by AParisianShakespearean



Series: Immortal Longings [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Actors, Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Androids and humans, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beaches, Bookstores, Connor Deserves Happiness, Demisexuality, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Identity, Identity Issues, Idiots in Love, Intimacy, Masturbation, Minor social commentary, Multi, Mutual Pining, Navigating Emotions, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Post Game fic, Road Trips, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Sensual Sex, Sensuality, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual exploration, Slow Burn, This fic contains spoilers for the musical hamilton, Unconventional Smut, androids navigating pesky things called feelings, potential cavities from the fluff, second love, unique intimacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 141,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: After the revolution, Connor lives without fully knowing what that means. Through art and music, Sophie helps him learn. She’s odd, eccentric, and freeing, and amidst the newness of living everyday, there is another newness that blooms when he thinks of her, that makes him most alive when he's in her arms.Life is ephemeral, Sophie knows. Connor, endearing, kind, and a strange sort of beautiful, reminds her of that fact. He learns to live and make his life his own as she remembers how beautiful being alive is. He promised her he wouldn't fall. But perhaps she would want to fall with him.A love story.





	1. The Night They Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello traveler! So when I played DBH, Connor really, really hit me with the feels. So much so I was compelled to write a story. What I have unfolding now is what I hope an exploration of Connor's life and growing sense of empathy and feeling post Revolution, alongside the story of a woman trying to find her way again. This is, I hope, a story of two people who begin to find home in each other. A romance, if you will.
> 
> Please enjoy :)

She didn’t know how she would grow to need him so, the night they first met. That night they met he had yet allowed himself to be fully himself and what he wanted to be. It was just as she didn’t yet know, that she was just as lost as he, merely floating through life, gliding and only being. She didn't know it then,while he, meanwhile, didn’t yet know how to be anything else other than what he was made to be. But the night they met, he met a woman, and she met a man.

Perhaps a part of her did know, how she would grow to need him so. Yet before it began, before it could begin, she was thinking of the ephemeralness of life.

Snow fell lightly against the pavement and benches. The park was quiet when she arrived, and she didn’t see the police lieutenant leave. Midnight again. Her mother used to say midnight was best spent alone at home, preferably asleep, though she never put that much stock in what her mother used to say, even if she would have preferred sleep to the insomnia at night. But was it better to sleep and dream, and to have that bliss for a little while, only to wake up disappointed?

She liked midnight. Midnights were endings, and beginnings. They could be dangerous too, and she knew if her father found out, he would scold her for walking the park at night. He would threaten to ground her even, though she was long past the age where grounding was appropriate. Didn’t mean it would stop him, but it was always with good intentions. She loved her father. Always did. Such a father's girl, Anthony would always say of her.

Anthony.

Moonlight was against the water, Moonlight and falling snow. Anthony was moonlight. Moonlight on skin, snow in his dark hair and eyelashes as they danced together under streetlamps. She loved dancing with Anthony. When was the last time she danced since it happened?

Anthony.

He was warm fingers on her cheek, a press of lips to her forehead. He was warm in her dreams, when she dreamed. Anthony, she would call, outstretching her arms. _Anthony. Anthony, Anthony…_

She closed her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself. They weren’t his arms. They could never be his arms. Why did she even go to the park, where they used be together? The paths were memories of places they stood, places they laughed when her hair was longer and her smile was easier. She had to walk the path alone now. She knew that after. Her mother told her after. Her mother didn’t mean it literally, however, and she figured her mother would never imagine how often she walked the paths they used to take together. Yet she was afraid of what would happen if she chose to stop walking the path.

Midnight. They could be endings and beginnings. Things ended, she knew that. She wondered though if they truly, truly ended. Because of that, endings were harder to pinpoint. Beginnings were much easier to grasp.

Their beginning was Connor.

It was him seeing her in the park, tears streaming from her cheeks, and walking over. Their beginning was Connor, already showing he was deviant, asking her if she was all right.

She was so lost in her thoughts that at first his voice startled her, but she became even more startled when she recognized him as an android. His jacket read that he was an RK800 model, a model she wasn't familiar with. Then again, she was never too familiar with androids. Her mother was the only person in her immediate circle that owned any, and she hardly saw her mother anymore. Her father was vehemently against owning them, and she tended to agree with that stance. Therein lied the problem and the reason why. _Owning._ For as much as CyberLife deemed androids as machines and not living and breathing, designed to free men of their labors, they looked too human to be considered as a machines. Yet they weren’t quite human enough for her not to feel a little uneasy, if the term “human” was even the right term to use. She spent much of her life wondering what it meant to be human. She didn’t know the answer. She learned to come to peace with the fact she never would.

The point was, she didn’t have much experience with androids, other than seeing them in the streets with families or having them take her money in shops. She did though, know it was unusual to see one alone and standing around, and in a park of all places. Especially one such as the one in front of her. One so dapper, and one so utterly, utterly…

She couldn’t think of the right word for him.

“Who are you?” she asked, regaining her bearings.

His eyes didn’t waver from her. “My name is Connor.”

She blinked, repeating the name. Relatively normal, as names went. She wondered who named him, and she remembered how that was another thing that unnerved her. So many families she knew named their androids while still calling them their own property. But names were an identity. Names were power. Connor, then, had an identity. Connor had power.

Connor. She liked the name, quite a lot. _Connor._

“Connor,” she said, after a moment, the name sounding foreign with it’s newness, but not wrong or odd. “What are you doing here? Do you have a family, or someone you need to return to?”

“No. I…no. I don’t have a family.”

Unusual again, insofar as she was concerned, unless he worked in a shop somewhere. “Are you lost?” she asked, though she couldn’t imagine how someone could lose an android, especially one such as he. He was a little hard to miss. He was tall, and though his figure wasn’t the most imposing, he was built with a certain strength that was neither spindly or lanky. He struck her as dapper, and when she wondered why, she figured it might have been the haircut. The last time she saw a man with that haircut she was watching a Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall film. The tie helped, as did his posture. The little strand of hair against his forehead was a touch playful.

Connor didn’t reply to her question. He closed his eyes, brown eyes, the color of the earth after rain. The little LED at the side of his forehead was the only other thing besides his uniform that would ever indicate his otherness, but only if he was standing far away. Up close, it was easier to see his...differences.  The LED glowed its faint blue glow as he opened his eyes again, blinking at her. The brown eyes still did not waver from her face. In general, their eyes, android eyes, always made her feel strange, and Connor’s was no different. Eyes are unique to everyone, her father said, and for as much as CyberLife tried, they could not replicate real eyes.

“Are you lost?” she repeated, trying not to look directly into Connor’s eyes.

“I don’t know.”

Both his voice and his demeanor wavered. It was odd. It was all so very…real. She wasn’t used to that sort of thing with them.

“You don’t know?” she repeated, knowing that answer certainly was not typical, but what she had been realizing since she first met him came to the forefront: Connor was not typical.

“No,” he finally muttered, after the brief pause. “I’m not lost. My partner. He just left. I should be heading back.”

The tone suddenly became stilted, like all the other androids. Briefly she managed to forget Connor wasn’t human like her, full of humanity’s odd quirks of language, pausing, and other matters when speaking. His stilted tone reminded her again, and she involuntarily stiffened.

“Your partner?” she asked, trying to hide it.

“Lieutenant Anderson.”

She recalled catching something on the news, something about an android helping with a police investigation. It must have been him. “Are you the one helping the Detroit Police then?”

“Yes.”

Him being in the park then, may have been trouble. “There’s nothing going on here though, right?” she asked, concern rapidly growing.

“No, I…no,” he quickly assured, easing her fears. “Hank. He wanted to come here.”

“He left you here?”

“He was inebriated.”

A cop getting drunk. That gave her a lot of trust in the Detroit Police.

She got back on the topic at hand. “But you stayed here, after he left?”

“Yes,” he said, hesitant. “He wanted to leave me alone. I stayed. I was…thinking. Well.” His eyes darted away. “I…think.”

His eyes darted back to her, and he looked at her as if he expected her to know how to decipher whatever happened, and whatever was going on in his head. She barely knew where to begin though. “You were thinking about thinking?” she suggested.

Connor didn’t reply again. He only furrowed his brows.

She decided to go simpler. “Well. What did you want to do? Did you want to stay?”

“I have only one purpose, to aid the police in their investigation.”

“But that’s not what I asked,” she insisted. “I asked what you wanted.”

“I’m designed to succeed in this mission, I wasn’t designed to fail. But after tonight, we’re not any closer. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

She didn’t know what to say at first. At any rate, it was the longest conversation she ever had with someone like him.

 _Someone like him_. She hated the thought almost immediately after it crossed her mind. Then again, CyberLife was rigid in their ideas, that androids were machines, set to “free humanity of it’s labors.” But if they created androids for a purpose, if they created Connor for a purpose… That had to mean something to all of them.

Connor’s purpose. It had to mean something to Connor.

“Don’t you want to uncover what you’re supposed to uncover in your investigation?” she asked. “I know you said you were…designed…but isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes.”

The answer though, wasn’t immediate.

Snow fell, snow against his dark hair and eyelashes. She was looking into his eyes again. She was beginning to fool herself into thinking they were real eyes. “I don’t know you Connor,” she said, finding her voice after another long moment of silence. “I don’t know if I even understand what you are, not really anyway, but…”

She didn’t go on. She felt Connor drift closer. “But what…?” he muttered, soft and easy.

She peered at him. The snow was pretty against his hair. “You must,” she said, “somewhere inside, must have a want.”

“I do. I want to succeed.”

“Beyond that. What happens after you’re done?”

“After this is done, I’ll go back to CyberLife,” he stated, as if that’s what his program or whatever it was, told him to say. “They’ll give me a new mission.”

“What if you don’t want to?”

“I am not human."

Another long pause, a pause that included her shifting her feet, while Connor remained eerily still. Yet their eyes still didn’t so much as look away.

“What I want is different from what you want,” Connor finished, remaining tall, confident. Though there was something that wavered.

Something inside her ignited. “But that’s not true,” she insisted. “You aren’t so different from me. I know it. You saw me when I was crying, and you asked me if I was all right. That can’t be part of your mission, can it? Or what CyberLife programmed you to do. But you saw me, and…and…”

He saw. Really and truly, he saw.

And then again, right at that moment, he asked her if she was all right.

She was compelled to tell him truth. "Only sometimes," she muttered.

“Me too," he muttered, and it was sincere. He was so very, very sincere.

“I come here, when I’m not alright,” she said, not sure why she was telling him, but unsure why she shouldn’t. “I don’t know why, it’s where a lot of the memories are. Maybe it’s just a form of healing, I don’t know. It’s nice, that’s all. Maybe the next time you’re thinking about thinking, you can come here too?”

She didn’t know any better, but it looked an awful lot like he was grinning. “Maybe.”

More silence, but it wasn’t odd or uncomfortable. It felt a little bit like a comfortable silence between her and her father, or her and Anthony.

“I hope you know what you want someday Connor,” she said, meaning that. “And I mean what you want, not what your purpose is.”

“What do you want?”

His eyes. They were warm. They were real. They compelled her again, to tell him the truth.

“I want to be happy,” she said.

He looked at her after, and though perhaps they said androids couldn’t really feel human emotions, she thought that maybe, maybe, Connor understood.

When she turned her back to leave, Connor’s voice, a hesitant, “wait,” stopped her. She turned back to him. He asked her for her name.

“Sophie,” she said. “My name is Sophie.”

“Sophie,” Connor said, and it sounded soothing in his voice. “I hope you’re happy soon,” he said.

She smiled. “I hope you know what you want soon, Connor.”

She looked at him one last time, before she departed for good. When she turned to him one more time before getting in her car, she realized there was no “maybe” anymore, because she could see. She knew Connor understood. She knew Connor knew.

 

* * *

 

Days later, Sophie, racked with insomnia, remained glued to the TV in her apartment, watching the live broadcast of the android’s demonstration. She watched as Connor lead his army.

A thousand androids behind him, Connor, with fire in his eyes, determined, strong, and powerful, brought them to Detroit. She watched as he stood behind the one they called Markus, beaming and proud, after it was announced that they had their freedom. Looking at him, seeing him again, Sophie knew it was exactly what he wanted.

Sophie knew that made him happy.


	2. New

Everything was so new.

New, like seeing the moon on the water and watching it disappear and change to the sun in the morning. He did that all the time, watch. He watched so much. He watched in new ways. He liked the newness. There were other times he didn't.

New. Seeing the lights on the Christmas tree, the wrapped packages underneath. Badly wrapped packages, he told Hank, though he threw his hands in the air and said it was the best he got and he would have to deal. Christmastime. It made everyone happy, Hank said, before telling him he should be happy too.

He wasn't sure how to find happiness exactly. Not when everything was so new. Not with everything else.

Awake at night, always awake. Sumo laying on his lap, when Hank was asleep. He would lay there and close his eyes. He couldn’t sleep like Hank or anyone else, but he thought closing his eyes would make what he didn’t want to remember stop. Hank said it wouldn’t. He had to find another way.

He tried anyway. But Hank was right.

It was new, to see so much. The good, and the bad. It was new to want to get rid of the bad.

 _You held it back before_ , Hank said. _It wasn’t that you didn’t know. You didn’t let yourself know._

Hank was next to him, his hand on his back. _It’s too much, he told him._

_You can handle it._

Hank was so confident, proud even. But it wasn’t just living. It was memories, memories resurging. _I did that Hank_ , he said, seeing again the first time, that first mission. _I was the negotiator and I betrayed him. Daniel. I lied to him. I said everything was alright, then it wasn't. He died, and it was because of me, and now I can’t forget. I can’t forget him, or the other deviant that was defending himself, who wanted to live. What can I do? How can I do it Hank?_

He looked at Hank. He hoped Hank could tell him how he could forget.

 _Sometimes you can’t,_ Hank said. _Sometimes it stays._

He didn’t want it to stay. He wanted to forget. _I’m not human_ , he told him.

_No. But you’re a person. And people hold onto things they regret, things they wished they had done._

_But Hank. Am I really alive?_

_You are Connor._

So. Was that what being alive meant? 

Hank promised that night, that it wasn’t all of it. He said Connor would have to find out for himself what the rest of it meant.

New.

 _We are people,_ Markus said. _We are people,_ painted in the walls of the new Jericho. People lived. People were alive. Connor didn’t know what really think he knew what all it encompassed, being alive. It was still one new thing after the other. He didn’t know how he would escape the newness, and be able to live.

Yet for as much as he was new, he was too flooded with flashes and images of everything before the moment he felt himself break the walls. He saw it all again, over and over. Daniel. Interrogating the other deviant. The android with the little girl, and looking at her through the fence. She was scared of him. The two androids, holding hands at the Eden Club. Lowering his gun. Hank pointing a gun to his head, asking him if he was deviant. The girl in the park after.

He came there often after the revolution, sometimes with Hank, sometimes by himself. He hadn’t seen her since. _Purpose,_ she said. _I hope you find your purpose Connor._

Sophie. Her name was Sophie. Tears were still in her eyes. She wanted to be happy. Why was she crying? Was it because she wasn’t happy?

Sophie. Hair that wasn’t red or brown, but somewhere between. Lots of parts of her were all in between. Wide eyes, brown but not the same way his were brown. Gold hues to her skin. Gold hues to her eyes. She was between. She asked him what he wanted.

Sophie. Her voice was a richness. He liked her voice. They stood close together. Sophie. She told him she hoped he found his purpose.

Hank asked him why he went to the park so much. He liked the moonlight on the water, and he liked the sun on water. He liked to see the falling snow.

He wondered if she was happy. It was new, to wonder those things.

It was new to feel a regret, at perhaps not seeing her again.


	3. The Night She Went Back

As the snow fell on that Christmas Eve, Sophie spoke to her father about the past.

Her lips tasted of the warm cinnamon wine, and that may have had something to do with how free her words were, how unabashed she was in speaking of how much she missed being young. Christmastime was always her favorite as a little girl. Mom and dad, they may have fought a lot in her youth, but not on Christmas. Christmastime was its own spell, and the magic of the trees, lights and snow could make everyone happy.

It wasn’t the presents that she liked as a girl, but it was going outside after, building snowmen and throwing snowballs. Especially in the first few years after moving from Hawaii to Michigan, where snow was still new and not a nuisance yet. She loved curling up by the fire after and reading stories. Watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and all the other old movies her mother and father made her watch, movies Sophie eventually garnered a keen appreciation for. It was a little different in the present, with only her and her father and her mother moved away after the divorce, but there were some traditions she and Dad kept, like the movies. They even kept the snowmen. The wine was something new, and certainly not something she was allowed in youth. Not completely new though, as she had been allowed a glass of their special Christmas wine since she was eighteen. That was almost seven years ago, that she had her first wine. There were a lot of things had changed since, things that needed to, and things she didn’t want to change.

After they met, she thought she would have every Christmas with him. Anthony.

Every day was a new sorrow, as a new realization and understanding came. There would be no more Christmases with him, no more sitting under the tree by the fire. No more New Year’s Eve kisses, or Valentine’s kisses. Someday, the memory of what his lips tasted like would fade away. The thought of loosing them was too much.

She tried to put that brave face back on, sitting on the couch in front of the fire with her father. It was, after all, Christmas. Everyone was supposed to be happy on Christmas.

“Sophia Noelle.”

The name was a wave of nostalgia. Sophia Noelle, her father said, like they used to print in the programs at the theatre. She toyed with a lot of stage names as a youth, and even considered just using her real name, Sophia Hartley. In the end she went with Sophia Noelle, her first and middle name, as a small tribute to her grandmother, who used to call her Sophia Noelle as if it was her full name.

Her father likely wasn’t trying to invoke her nostalgia, or make her realize she longed for the stage again, but if she admitted it to herself, there was a twinge of longing for performing again when she heard her stage name. He hadn’t called her that in a while, but it was Christmas. It was a Noel. When she was younger she heard the story every year before going to bed and waiting for Santa to come. On the night before, her mother found out she was pregnant with her on Christmas, and to tribute that, the “best Christmas present,” Sophie was gifted the middle name of Noelle.

“Papa,” Sophie said as her own tribute, calling him what she used to call him as a little girl, and raising her wine glass. “Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year.”

“It has been a year, hasn’t it?”

For many reasons. “Yes.”

“Think of what they’ll say in the future about this year. Sophie, think of how we were the ones that lived through it.”

It was overwhelming. She didn’t know what to think, other than perhaps they were lucky in a way, to witness it all. One day, she would be able to say that she was there, watching it unfold. One day she would be able to say she met one of the ones at the center of the revolution. She was lucky enough to one day be able to say, that the one called Connor showed her compassion.

She kept it her little secret, locked away in her memory. Connor. He was kind, and he was gentle. He was alive.

“It was wrong to ever think they were slaves.”

Her father was mournful as he glanced toward the fire. In recent years his black hair had greyed, his face and hands became more weathered. Yet in all their years he didn’t lose his inherent quirks, his moments of wisdom he had since she was a little girl.

He was right. Of course, of course he was right.

“It was,” Sophie said. “It was.”

“And we stood by.”

“But we didn’t own any.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

She closed her eyes, the truth of the matter piercing and without mercy. She knew after… _it_ …happened she was bound to her own sorrow, but it was selfish of her to live in her own mind and own little world for so long, retreating there when it all became so much. She should have opened her eyes.

But when was she not living in her own world still? When she saw her father? When she was at work? Seeing a play her friends were doing, wishing she could go back and be Sophia Noelle again, but something stopping her?

All those times bled together. In fact, there was only one moment in time, one moment she could recall other than that, that she knew she was not living in her own little world, and she saw outside of it. It was a moment she thought of quite frequently.

“What are you thinking about?” her father asked, sensing her recollections. “You’re pensive.”

“How much of the demonstration did you see?” she asked. “Back in November, when it was airing?”

“Almost all of it.”

“Well,” she began, realizing there was no simple way to lead into it. “I was in the park, a week or two before the eleventh. I met one of the ones involved in the rebellion.”

She told the story, bracing herself for the imminent lecture of walking in the park alone at night, but her father remained thankfully quiet as she recollected the events.

“He asked me if I was alright,” she said. “His name was Connor. He seemed a little odd, I suppose, and conflicted. Like he was supposed to do something that he wasn’t sure he believed in. But Dad, I saw him during the rebellion on TV, and…I don’t know, but… I think he believed. It was so strange though, when I was talking to him. It was like, like I could fool myself into thinking he was a real person.”

“But Sophie, he is real.”

 _We are alive, we are people_ , they all chanted. “I know that now,” she said. “Papa. He was realer to me than so many ever have been.”

“I suspect you didn’t tell your mother?”

She shook her head. Since the divorce, Thanksgiving was with her mother and Christmas was with her father, every year since she was fourteen. Then when her mother remarried it was Thanksgiving at her stepfather’s house in Florida, always a loud and noisy affair where Sophie knew it was best to keep her thoughts to herself. Since the rebellion things had not progressed that much outside of Detroit, and Sophie saw the full extent of it all while she was down there. She kept the story of her midnight meeting to herself. And beyond that, she didn’t think they deserved to know about how he asked her if she was all right. They didn’t deserve to know about Connor.

He was so kind to her, so earnest. Meeting him, snow falling in their hair, their eyes hardly wavering from each other, it felt like a dream. And yet at the same time, it was one of the only real things that had happened to her for a long, long time.

“I wonder if he’s happy,” Sophie said, wistful. “I hope he’s happy.”

“Maybe someday you’ll find out.”

“Happiness is so ephemeral,” she said.

“Most things are.”

“Not androids.”

“The point is,” her father said, sharply over Sophie’s quip, “is that the reason happiness is so ephemeral is because if it was longer, you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

It became quiet, quiet as she drifted, sinking and submerging. Her father, he knew. From the corner of her eye, she saw him set his glass down.

“Sophie—"

“It’s alright,” she muttered, though that was a lie. “You are right. I know. I just wish I would have known before. I would have held on to him a little longer. I wouldn’t have let us leave that night.”

“There’s someone out there for you.”

“They’re might not be. And even if there was, I have to be happy on my own.”

He put his hand on hers. “You will be.”

“I don’t always think so.”

“They would have once said the same thing about what happened November eleventh.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. They watched _It’s a Wonderful Life._ The evening was lovely, re-watching their old favorites, living and existing and remembering the good times. Midnight came eventually. Christmas Eve turned to Christmas day, but sleep alluded her. She wanted to go back to the park.

She tried to be quiet as she grabbed her peacoat from the hall closet. She would have been able to leave quietly without her father noticing, had she not almost tripped over her own two feet.

He dashed from the kitchen to the hallway, a cookie in his hand just as she recovered. “Sophie,” he scolded, dashing over in time to help her steady, “Sophie. It’s midnight. You can’t be thinking about going back now.”

“It was our place. We walked there all the time. Our last Christmas we were there and he told me we would always go there.”

He held her mournful longing, and she sighed when he didn’t reply.

“Dad,” she said, pleading with him. “I haven’t been since November.”

“But it’s Christmas.”

“I miss him even more because of it.”

She knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that Anthony would have wanted her to move on, to not retread their old paths. She was young, she deserved to live her life without thinking of the regret of not having him by her side. But who was she, if she didn’t go back and remember? She had to remember to go forward. She believed that. She just hoped she wasn’t walking the fine line between remembering, and living in the past.

That was a debate for another day.

Her father offered her a cookie. Wordlessly, she took it.

“Be careful.”

“Papa.”

“And please. Be back soon.”

She promised she would, thanking him once more before she left, dusting the crumbs of the sugar cookie off her peacoat. Out of everyone, her father best understood how Sophie needed to live in the past and walk the old paths. She was sure part of him did know better, just as Sophie knew better. But Christmas was a magic, and the New Year was good for new beginnings and goals. She could think of it another day.

There was another thing though, another thing she hadn’t thought of until she was in the park, and she looked around, and saw that he wasn’t there. It wasn’t just retreading old paths. Buried deep within, she had thought that maybe, just maybe, Connor would be there again. But it had been a silly, ridiculous thought anyway.


	4. Presents

That Christmas morning Hank handed Connor the badly wrapped packages from under the tree decorated with lights and red ornaments, and told him to start opening them.

Inside one was a new jacket, while another had a pair of white sneakers. For every day, you know, he said. Another package had more clothes, another with more shirts of various colors, and the last one was a wallet. To put your money, Hank said. You know, in case something happens when you go out.

Then, when Connor thought that was all, Hank handed him one more thing. They were tickets to see Knights of the Black Death in late January.

 _I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything Hank,_ Connor said as he helped Hank clean up. _No one has given me anything before, not like this._

 _Hey. You cleaned the house. You shoveled the snow from the driveway. You bathed Sumo,_ he said, making sure to add how the bathroom was sopping wet after. _Besides, you don’t need to get me anything. Christmas, you know, it’s usually for the parents._

Something struck in him when Hank said that. Connor was about to ask, say something about it, but Hank pointed at him before he could. Said he got rid of the “thing” on his forehead.

Hank was right. Connor did take off his LED that morning. He was in the bathroom, looked at his reflection, and he decided he didn’t want it anymore.

Hank approved. _You almost look normal._

Normal.

He didn’t like that word anymore. He sat at the kitchen table. Hank followed, apologized.  It was why Connor stopped leaving the house except for night when there were fewer people. When others saw the LED, they knew he was different. Not normal. He could have removed it sooner, but he wasn’t sure why before. Maybe because people saw him and knew exactly who he was. RK800, the one from the demonstration. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be Connor.

Not the Connor they made. The Connor he decided to be.

He took off the LED that morning, finally, because he wanted that one last thing that reminded him of before gone.

He should have done it sooner.

 _Hank?_ Connor asked as he drank his coffee. _You don’t…think_ …

Think what?

_That…well…_

_Hey,_ Hank said coming over and patting his back again. _You’re Connor. All right?_

He didn’t know what that meant really. _You’ll find out_ , Hank promised.

_How?_

He shrugged. He didn’t know how he could find out, it was different for everyone. So Connor asked him what he did to find out.

Hank didn’t answer immediately. He sat back and considered, before saying he didn’t really know what he did. It made Connor think about what he was doing, what he had been doing. He went to Jericho sometimes, but he could never stay long. Markus asked him to, told him he was welcome. But being there…

He couldn’t explain. He didn’t know.

Staying with Hank. He liked staying with Hank. He was at the station a lot of the time, but when he wasn’t they watched TV, talked.

 _Hey_ , Hank said to him, breaking his thoughts. _Pretty soon, maybe you can come with me again to the station. I kind of miss having you around and not doing what I say. We’ll be partners again._

Connor said he thought they already were partners.

“You’re right,” Hank replied. “We are.”

They watched movies the rest of the day, one called _The Christmas Story_ in particular made Hank laugh. _Never gets old,_ he commented. Afterward they turned on the Detroit Gears game. Sumo was on his lap, sleeping as Connor pet him. It was quiet, quiet and calm. He liked the quiet and the calm. He liked it when he wasn’t remembering.

 _What are you thinking about Connor?_ Hank asked after the game. _You’ve been quiet._

He told him it was nice, that he liked Christmas. That he was thankful Hank let him stay at his house.

“What else would I have done son?”

He started off not remembering, not thinking. He ended up doing a lot of both later on into the evening. He just wasn’t thinking about things he didn’t wish to. He was thinking about what Hank meant and what he said. He wondered if it made him happy. Then when he thought of that, he thought of the girl in the park that wanted to be happy.

 _Life doesn’t always give you answers,_ Hank said the first night Connor stayed at his home.

But that was before, when he didn't know he would see her again.


	5. The Day They Met Again

The Corner Bookstore, Detroit’s premier place for antique books and mass market paperbacks, was one of the only remaining bookstores stocked with actual books in the city of Detroit. Owned by the same family for over fifty years, and now in the hands of a certain Jane Fitzgibbons, the place held an old-world charm, so much so that walking inside the bookstore was akin to walking into the earlier parts of the previous century, with every inch of wall covered from the bottom to the top with novels of rare and old, and long bookshelves in the center of the store filled with classics and other favorites. It wasn’t just Sophie’s place of employment. It was a private world cut off from the sprawling metropolis outside, and a world she referred to as her second home.

Mrs. Fitz sold books to costumers and bought them from others, and every month Sophie could scan the shelves and see titles she hadn’t seen before. It was a quiet place to work, and when she was in college she would write papers or study her lines during the interims between helping customers. Of late she had been doing a lot of reading, rereading old Shakespearean favorites, and familiarizing herself with works she wasn’t that acquainted with, though she still couldn’t get into the Henry the sixth plays or _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , and the latter likely had to do with the fact that she played Peaseblossom in a rather disastrous production when she was seven years old. She lost a fondness for it after that, but she was also of the opinion that the play was a tad overdone. Parts of it, however, she admired greatly.

“Love looks with the mind not the eye,” Sophie muttered to herself for old times’ sake as she flipped through one of the store’s well-worn copies, “and tis winged cupid painted blind.”

She wondered if she would ever make a good Helena on stage, muttering those lines under hot stage lights and wearing a Grecian toga. She couldn’t really relate to Helena though, who longed for another man that held his affections elsewhere.

She recalled how Anthony defended the play. _But Puck makes it right in the end_ , he said once during their early stages of their courting and dating.

 _It’s manufactured,_ she replied. _It’s not Lysander really feels._

_Maybe Puck just helped him see the truth._

Maybe there was some merit to that, but Sophie couldn’t be sure. Even then, three years later.

Three years ago that happened when they first began considering each other as romantic paramours, but they had known each other for six. Things changed that she did not want to change, as she so often thought of, but as Sophie waited for Mrs. Fitz to come back from the bank, she had to admit some things changed for the better. Even merely perusing through old Shakespeare volumes reminded her of how she had become a much better actress than she had been when Anthony first introduced himself to her in that freshman acting class. Better actress, and a better person too, she hoped anyway, though there were also a number of physical changes that occurred over the years, as she observed through the mirror Mrs. Fitz set up to the right of the counter. She never really dyed her hair, preferring the natural reddish-brown hue, but it used to be long and to her back, the soft waves cascading. Being cast as Sally Bowles in _Cabaret_ a couple years back warranted getting it cut to a bob. Since then it had grown out a little, and now she admitted she preferred her hair more medium than long, the shoulder length hair bouncier than it had ever been, with fuller curls that reached her shoulders, emulating Lauren Bacall and other ladies from Old Hollywood. Racially ambiguous, casting directors referred to her as a few times she had the misfortune of trying to audition before she and her friends finally decided to start their own company. But the world saw binaries, and because her father was of Tahitian descent and her mother’s background was heavily European, Sophie never really fit into either group. She only fit in with her father, or on the stage, or with Anthony. Or in the bookstore with Mrs. Fitz.

On cue, the bells tingled overhead, signaling Mrs. Fitz’s entrance. “Stop looking at yourself girl,” Mrs. Fitz scolded as Sophie removed her hand from her hair, tearing her gaze away from the mirror. “I know you are very, very pretty,” she continued, “but looking at yourself does you no good. Besides, I am sure plenty remind you that enough as it is.”

“Actually Mrs. Fitz, not really,” Sophie admitted. “No one tells me I’m pretty these days, except maybe my father. Of course he’s obligated to.”

“Well besides your father, I am. Right now. You are pretty.”

Sophie smiled. In her sixties, Mrs. Fitz still ran marathons and let hardly anything deter her in what she wanted to do. Her hair had turned silver and yet she still kept it long, usually in a side braid, and she wore makeup that managed to bring out color in her natural pallor rather than drown her out. She loved floral dresses and skirts that had tulle, so much so that she inspired Sophie to usually only wear skirts that bustled in the shop when she worked. That was another reason too Sophie admired herself, she was rather proud of her outfit that day. A brown skirt that bustled with red buckled heels, with hose so her legs were protected from the winter chill. With it she wore a matching brown turtleneck, the sleeves warm and snug. Winter was always welcome in her world, for both the fashion and the snow.

She looked smart. She looked like she belonged elsewhere in time. Fitting. On more than one occasion, she wished to be elsewhere.

“How you can maintain a tan in the middle of winter should be a crime,” Mrs. Fitz quipped, shaking her head.

“Genetic perhaps,” Sophie replied. “I’m sorry Mrs. Fitz.”

“Oh you.”

She headed back to the back, Sophie remaining and clicking her heels to the wooden floor.

“No matter where you go,” Mrs. Fitz scoffed from the back, “it’s androids this, androids that.”

“It’s been like that since I was nine years old,” Sophie replied, remembering when the first model, “Chole,” was released to the world in 2022.

“When I was younger there was Siri and Alexa. No one back then thought there was a possibility they could become ‘deviant,’ and start to develop free thought.”

“Maybe they always had free thought.”

“Maybe,” Mrs. Fitz said. “Sooner or later we’re going to have an android running for Congress, or hell even president. At least an android would be better than Trump.”

“It seems to me they want to elect their own representatives,” Sophie said. “Govern themselves. Or at least that’s what the leader Markus said.”

“Well they have their own sanctuary of sorts in that Jericho or whatever it’s called,” Mrs. Fitz said. “But we can’t sit back and pretend like they aren’t there, they’re bound to show up sooner or later. One might come here even, ask for a job. What am I supposed to do then?”

“Hire them?” Sophie suggested, motioning to the Now Hiring sign outside. “If they do a good job, what’s wrong with hiring an android?”

“Nothing I suppose, but what if it scares away costumers?”

“They,” Sophie found herself correcting. “We can’t keep calling them “it.” It’s dehumanizing. They are people. We have to start thinking of them that way.”

Mrs. Fitz nodded. “You’re right girl,” she said. “You’re right. But I still wouldn’t know what I would do if one walked in right now. I barely knew what to do before.”

“Treat them with dignity and not any differently than you would anyone else?” Sophie suggested. “I don’t know. Times are changing Mrs. Fitz. You have to admit that we’re pretty lucky to be alive right now.”

“Maybe.”

Sophie sighed. Maybe she wasn’t the best person to give lectures about how lucky they were to be alive, but lately, the notion wormed itself into her head. History happened and was happening in Detroit, and there she was, in the greatest city in the world.

“We’re lucky.” Sophie muttered. “We really are. And—”

Mrs. Fitz raised her eyebrows. Sophie wasn’t the type to abruptly stop her sentences and her trains of thought, but there she was, doing just that.

“What’s the matter girl?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Sophie muttered. “I just…nothing.”

“Just what?”

She couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t have been. It had to have been someone else. Surely his face was similar to many faces, his frame similar to many others as well. Through the window, standing tall and erect, with his hands in his pockets of his black hoodie that read Knights of the Black Death, it couldn’t have been him.

Connor. Fresh, new, and alive. Connor.

He saw her, through the window. Their eyes locked. He tilted his head. His furrowed brows softened.

It was him. It was him, and he remembered. It was beautiful to be remembered.

“Connor,” Sophie whispered. “It’s Connor.”

“Who?” Mrs. Fitz stood propped next to her, observing Connor through the window. “That boy looks familiar. But—” Mrs. Fitz glanced at Sophie. “Why are you blushing?”

Sophie’s hands flew to her cheeks. “I am not!”

Mrs. Fitz, however, wasn’t falling for it. “You think he’s attractive, don’t you?”

“No!”

“Don’t lie. Can’t say I disagree.”

“I’ve just met him before, that’s all.”

“When?”

“In the park before Thanksgiving,” she stammered, realizing Mrs. Fitz didn’t know he was an android, didn’t realize who he was and what part he played. Something in her told her to keep his relative anonymity with Mrs. Fitz, and she heeded it.

Mrs. Fitz put her hands on her hips. “And you didn’t get his number?” she asked.

“Mrs. Fitz!”

“Hello.”

Sophie recouped and tried to straighten herself as Connor came inside the shop in long and gallant strides. Sophie looked anywhere but at his face, and her gaze drifted to the counter, to his hands. His fingers were long and slender, graceful even.

Connor. She saw him on TV. She saw him in the park before it happened. He asked her if she was all right. She saw it, written on his face, that he remembered her.

“Hello,” she said.

His lips curved a little, in the faintest grin. “Again,” he muttered. “Hello again.”

He leaned in, not enough to touch, but enough to be closer, enough for her to see the little moles on his face and the lighter earth tones in his brown eyes. Even with his very modern hoodie she couldn’t divorce him from the image she first saw in the park. He looked too much like he belonged in an old film from the nineteen forties, and the new Knights of the Black Death hoodie didn’t change that. He was poised and distinguished. He was in her bookshop.

“I wasn’t sure I would see you again,” she admitted, noticing his LED was gone.

“I’m glad we did.”

His tone sounded different, more fluid and natural and less robotic, for lack of a better word. He sounded even more like a real person, even more so than the brief pockets of time in the park, the little pockets of doubt. There was still an otherness about him, a certain newness that may have merely come off as wonder to others, had they not known.

She wondered. How long had it been, since she had a wonder?

Mrs. Fitz cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but who are you?” she asked, reminding everyone she was still there.

Connor blinked. “Oh,” he muttered, straightening. “My name is Connor, I’m the…”

A moment passed. He seemed confused, unsure of what to say. “My name is Connor,” he at last offered again, more definitive in tone.

“Connor,” Mrs. Fitz repeated, nodding and considering. “Nice Irish name. So. What brings you into my bookshop?”

“I was hoping to buy a book.”

“What kind?”

“One for my…”

Mrs. Fitz and Sophie leaned in as he trailed off again. “Someone I know,” he offered, after a moment. “He likes books.”

“Well, Sophie can help you. I do believe I have to go to my office now.”

Sophie stared. “Mrs. Fitz…”

“Sophie can help you with what you’re looking for! She knows everything and I’d just get in the way!”

“I don’t know everything,” Sophie said feebly as Mrs. Fitz scurried to the back office, the door gently closing behind her. She certainly didn’t know what to say to Connor. I _’m glad what happened happened and the androids have their freedom? I saw you that night on TV and you looked really determined and like you took my advice, and no one takes my advice so that was great to see?_ Both were true, as was the fact that she was happy to see him again. Maybe even joyous. It’s why looking directly at him was difficult. Things that elicited happiness and compelled her had always been hard for her to accept, though she couldn’t really understand why. There was a reason, after all, it took an extended period for her and Anthony to be together.

“Your heart rate is above average.”

She stared. “How do you know that?”

“You’re cheeks. You’re also moving a lot.”

She had been tapping her fingers against the counter. She ceased. “Uh…”

“I’m sorry,” he stated, eyes downward as he realized his error. “I know androids make people nervous.”

“No, no it’s not that,” she assured quickly. “I saw you on TV that night, you know. You looked really determined, and it seemed like you took my advice. No one really does that normally, so, you know. I mean maybe it wasn’t all me, in fact I’m sure it wasn’t, but—”

Her breath caught suddenly. Since when had someone looked at her that intently? It was new. It wasn’t unwelcome.

“I’m just really happy for you,” she said.

“Thank you.”

The silence that passed wasn’t awkward. It was filled with something she could not place. Eventually however, Connor leaned in a little more against the counter, and asked if he could ask her a question. One that didn’t have to do with books.

“Sure,” she said. “What’s the question?”

“You’re not bothered that I’m not human?”

He asked it quickly, as if he was afraid he would take it back if he didn’t. “Why do you ask?” she asked.

“That’s all some people see.”

His voice wavered, his eyes, sparking before, lost their inherent wonder.

“It’s not all I see,” Sophie promised.

The wonder returned, when he asked her what she saw.

She thought. She saw a man with a contemplative expression, soft eyes and a soft demeanor. Someone who was still searching, maybe. But that was no different from anyone. Life was a state of constantly searching. She didn’t know if that would be a comfort to him. He was designed, like all androids were designed, to finish tasks. Until he chose not to anymore, until he chose to walk into her bookshop.

“I see a customer,” she said. “Someone looking for a book. Did you have anything in mind?”

His eyes turned downward. Did she disappoint him?

She didn’t mean or want to. It was only difficult to articulate, difficult for her to admit that she had studied and thought about him, maybe more than she should have.

So she decided to change the subject. “Knights of the Black Death, huh?” she asked, gesturing to his jacket. “My boyfriend listened to them.”

His head tilted, as if he didn’t know what she meant. “Boyfriend?”

“Someone I was sweet on,” she explained. “My—my…oh.”

Overwhelmed, she ceased. Dwelling on it further would make her remember. She didn’t want to remember. She had been sad enough. She didn’t want to be anymore.

“Your what?” Connor asked, softly, leaning in just so.

“My partner,” she offered, not finding the word apt enough, but settling on it none the less.

“Partner,” he repeated, considering the term. “Where is your partner?”

Do not remember, do not remember.

She closed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, taking a deep breath and keeping her eyes closed like she used to do before she came on stage, back when she was acting. It’s how she concentrated and ended up being where she needed to be. This was no different.

She opened her eyes again. Connor was still there. In her bookshop. She had to pull it together.

“So,” Sophie said, hoping her grin or her tone wasn’t artificial. “What brought you specifically here?”

“Are you…?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sad.”

She bit her lip as his eyes carefully swept over her face, observing every little detail, every shape and plain.

“I can come back,” he suggested.

She shook her head, his concern striking something in her. “No, please don’t leave,” she stammered. “I’m fine. Really. Please. Let me help you. I want to help you.”

“Hardly anyone wants to help an android.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “I do.”

“But why?”

The first statement about him being one caught her off guard. The following question did the same.

She answered the only way she knew how. “Because you were kind to me,” she said. “But even if we didn’t meet before, you came to the shop wanting to buy a book, and that’s what I do. I sell books to people. So tell me: what kind of book are you looking for?”

He almost laughed she thought, though it was hard to tell. She wondered if androids laughed. She hoped so.

“Well,” Connor said, easing. “I want to buy something for Hank. He’s my partner, and he’s letting me stay in his house,” he added.

“The same one you mentioned at the park last month?”

“You remembered,” Connor said, surprised, and perhaps delighted too. “Yes.”

She had a few wonderings about that. “That…are you…?”

“We’re roommates,” Connor proudly announced. “That’s what Hank said.”

Ah. So they were roommates. She nodded, understanding.

“Christmas was the other day, and he got me a lot of things,” he said. “I wanted to get him something too.”

“The power of books is always a marvelous gift,” Sophie asserted. “Do you know what kind of book he would want?”

His brows furrowed. “Well, what’s he like?” Sophie asked, thinking she could get a few ideas.

“Hard-boiled, eccentric.”

“Does he have a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare laying around?”

Connor shook his head. “You should get him that then!” Sophie suggested, buoyant. “I firmly believe everyone should have a copy of Shakespeare’s works in their home. Or at least one or two plays.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, Sophie said, walking from behind the counter and drifting over to the Shakespeare section, Connor following her, “Shakespeare’s plays are so universal. I realize some people find him hard to read, and yes he can be, but someone telling me they don’t like Shakespeare is like saying they don’t like music. All his works are so different. King Lear is like Knights of the Black Death,” she thought, considering. “Much ado About Nothing is like ABBA. Probably why it’s one of my favorites.”

He had no clue who ABBA was, she could tell by his blank expression. That was probably for the best.

“Anyway,” she said, getting things back on track. “Maybe your lieutenant would like the comedies? Here’s a nice collection for a coffee table or bookshelf.”

She handed him the copy, bound in leather and with gold lettering. He flipped through it, observing the titles.

“Think he would like it?” he asked.

“I think more than anything he would appreciate the gift,” Sophie said. “I don’t think it matters what it is per se. Well…it does, yes, depending on the situation,” she said as a caveat. “But I don’t think one can go wrong with the bard.”

She grinned at him. He mirrored it, ever so slightly. His smiles were usually small, but still meaningful. She liked them. She liked him.

“I’ll check you out,” she said, and it was only after she said it that she realized her rather large blunder.

“I mean…not like that,” she insisted quickly, Connor’s brows furrowing. “but…oh…”

She was glad Mrs. Fitz wasn’t there to see her blushing cheeks, cheeks that turned even redder when Connor asked what she meant by “that.”

She wanted to disappear behind a shelf. “Ugh…”

“You seem uncomfortable,” Connor said. “Maybe I should pay for the book and leave? Hank’s probably wondering where I am anyway.”

“Right.”

Connor handed her the money and she wrapped the book in a brown paper bag for him, her hands clumsy as she felt him observe her. The fact he was a natural observer was endearing earlier. Then it just made her want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Thank you,” Connor said as she finished up and handed him the package.

“You’re welcome. Please come again. And if Hank doesn’t like the book, you can always get him a new one.”

Nodding, his eyes lingered for a moment more. One moment, before he turned and headed for the door.

Something compelled her to stop him. “Connor?”

Stopping at the door, he turned back to her. “Yes?”

“I…I was…it was really cool to see you on TV,” she said. “You seemed like you really wanted to be there. Determined.”

She said that already. But it could be repeated.

“I did,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

He was observing her again. This time, it wasn’t so bad.

But too much time was passing. “See you around Connor.”

“Goodbye, Sophie.”

The bells tingled, singnaling his leaving. He took one more glance at her before disappearing from view.

Connor. She met him in the park. He came to her bookshop. Connor.

She didn’t notice she was still waving till Mrs. Fitz bounded behind her.

“You will see him around,” Mrs. Fitz said. “He’ll be back.”

“I don’t know,” Sophie muttered. “Detroit’s a big city, I’m amazed our paths crossed again.”

“Well. Maybe so.”

If there was one thing Mrs. Fitz prided with herself, it was her predictions. “Wait,” Sophie said, following Mrs. Fitz back to her office. “How much did you hear?”

“Just the end. Just enough to know he liked what he saw.”

“Uh…”

Mrs. Fitz shrugged. “He’ll be back. I promise.”

Well. Sophie was unsure about a number of things. However, there was one thing she was sure about.

She wanted Mrs. Fitz to be right.


	6. Fireworks

January first. Midnight. Fireworks lit up the sky in Detroit.

Connor could see them through the window in the living room. He thought about going out and watching, but Sumo was on his lap. He was afraid of the loud noises. _It’s okay,_ Connor told him, rubbing his back. It’s just a little fireworks.

Hank snorted when he emerged from the bathroom. _He’s not a lap dog_. _You can’t keep treating him like one, or you’ll spoil him._

_He’s already spoiled Hank. He weighs more than he should for a dog his age and size._

Hank rolled his eyes and called him a smart ass

More fireworks lit the sky. Connor heard Hank go to the kitchen. He liked the gift a lot, in the way Sophie said he would, for the thoughtfulness. But he did say it reminded him of when he was in high school. He used to act and was even in one of the shows. _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , he said. The book brought back a lot of memories. 

 _You didn’t have to do that Connor,_ Hank said about the book when he gave it to him.

_I wanted to. The girl in the store helped me._

_Really? Nice of her._

Since then, Connor wondered if he should tell Hank about her and how it was strange to see her again, and how her heart rate was up, indicating she was nervous and embarrassed. She got better as they talked, but her cheeks were still pink. She didn’t care that he was an android.

When she said it, he believed her. In fact she seemed like someone to believe in, the girl he met her before the revolution. Before he ever knew he was deviant. He wondered if he would see her again, and he did.

He didn't feel any different. Nothing was satisfied and he still wondered.

Hank sat down next to Connor, turning on the TV. Sumo settled as the fireworks died down, but Connor still let him lay his head on his lap. 

_I met her before._

It was a whisper, and Hank didn’t know what he was talking about at first. Connor had to go back, explain that he wanted to get Hank a book because he said he liked books, and when he found the bookshop, he was surprised because he recognized the girl from the park that night after the Eden Club, Sophie.

 _She was there that night?_ Hank asked.

_I saw her after you left. She looked sad. She seemed a little sad in the bookshop too. I wish I knew why._

_Sometimes people are sad for no reason. Emotions. They can really fuck you up._

_How do you deal with it?_

_How do you? When you became deviant, you opened that part of yourself._

_I’m not doing a good job._

Hank was contemplative. “Connor,” he said, inching closer. “You’ll get there. I promise.”

He was quiet, for a minute. “I wish there was something I could do,” he admitted.

“Markus or the others at Jericho. Don’t they need help?”

“They don’t need me Hank.”

“You were one of the ones that helped tip things in their favor,” Hank reminded him. “You helped get your people free.”

Connor didn’t think he was so free. “Hank. I don’t belong there.”

“Why are you saying that?” Hank asked, soft.

He looked away. “I killed my own people. I can’t go there, and look at them when…”

He closed his eyes. It was too much. “Hank," he said, "I don’t like this.”

His voice was softer than before. “It’s called guilt, Connor.”

Guilt, that gnawed at him at night, when he couldn’t sleep. Guilt. Would it ever go away? “What do I do?” he asked, pleaded.

“I wish I could tell you Connor,” Hank said. “But I hardly know.”

Connor knew why. “Hank. What happened to Cole wasn’t your fault.”

“And you want to do better.”

But that didn’t make things better. He couldn’t do better if all he did was sit and wait. But they talked about it before, all the time. Things hadn’t calmed down yet. Connor couldn’t walk into the police station and join investigations after everything, even though he wanted to. He wanted. The few times he wasn’t a coward and made it to the new Jericho, there was word of another crime. All the same.

Androids weren't coming home.

He had to do something. He had to protect his people.

“Connor…”

“There has to be something I can do,” Connor said.

“Get a job, maybe,” Hank suggested, shrugging. “then maybe you can start paying rent.”

Connor was certain Hank was being “sarcastic,” as he referred to it. He still considered, as the idea wouldn’t go away. He thought.

_Now Hiring._

The sign on the bookstore said they were hiring. But would they even want someone like him?

Sophie. She said it didn’t matter to her, what he was. He believed her. He—

“I’m going to try to get a job Hank,” Connor said. “Tomorrow.”

Hank shot up. “A job? Are you—”

“The bookstore had a now hiring sign,” Connor said. “Maybe they would hire me.”

“Connor. If it doesn’t happen, I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“She said she didn’t care,” Connor said. “I believed her.”

Hank was silent for a minute. “Besides,” Connor said, breaking the silence. “It’s weighing heavily that I’m not paying rent.”

Hank smirked. “Sarcasm,” he said, pointing at Connor. “You’re getting better at it.”

“Thank you.”

A few more fireworks lit up the sky after the little break without them, Connor could see through the window. Sumo whimpered. He gave him a reassuring pet.

“Hank,” Connor said. “I think I have a good feeling.”

“You have a good feeling?”

He nodded.

“Jesus I hope it’s not because you have a crush on that girl.”

He didn’t know what that was. Hank, realizing, elaborated. “You know,” he explained. “You think she’s cute. You want to get to know her, be her boyfriend or whatever.”

Sophie used that word, in relation to someone else, Connor recalled. “Do you have a crush on anyone Hank?” he wondered.

“Hell no.”

“Why? Is it a bad thing?”

“It can be. It also can be pretty good,” he said, flippant.

Connor considered. “How so?”

“It’s really nice. That’s all. Like you can’t imagine being anywhere else but where they are.”

Connor really didn’t imagine himself anywhere. Everyday was something new. Maybe he had guilt, like Hank said, or maybe he had a lot of guilt, and that’s why he couldn’t be there with the others at Jericho. His ideal was knowing who he was and knowing what it meant to be living. Knowing what his purpose was.

Working. It was something. Maybe too, he wanted to see her again.


	7. The Day He Got a Job

When Mrs. Fitz bounded in the shop the second day of the new year, she had the look of a woman about ready to burst at the seams.

“Sophie, Sophie!” she exclaimed as she set her bags and large coat on top of the counter, using the tone Sophie knew she always used before imparting gossip. She braced herself for the long story that would inevitably come about Mrs. Fitz’s family over the New Years, ready to nod and agree while offering sage advice. She was ready for that, prepared.

She wasn’t so prepared to talk about Connor.

“That boy!” Mrs. Fitz said, with all the excitement an archaeologist must have felt after discovering a new tomb, “the tall, dark-haired one! Do you know why he looked familiar? Sophie, it’s because he was the android on TV that night! He was there with Markus and the others! And he was in my bookshop!”

“Yes,” Sophie intoned. “Yes Mrs. Fitz. He was here.”

Scandalized, Mrs. Fitz pointed out Sophie didn’t seem as surprised as she thought she would be.

“I thought you would be excited!” she said. “Not every day someone famous walks into my bookshop.”

Sophie made her confession. “I hate to say this Mrs. Fitz, but I already knew that.”

“Is that why you got all blushy when he came in?”

“I was not blushy,” Sophie persisted.

Mrs. Fitz wasn’t falling for it. “Oh yes you were. Unless there are different models. Never saw a model like him though."

"It was him," Sophie promised. "It was."

"So why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, whacking Sophie across the arm.

“I would think that maybe people would recognize him often and maybe he would want some anonymity?” Sophie said, rubbing at the spot. “And did it matter? He was a customer that needed help.”

“Shame. He’s attractive.”

Sophie sighed. “Mrs. Fitz. I have two things to say to that: the first is that it doesn’t matter he’s an android. They live, just like we do. They have wants, they—”

“That’s not what I meant Sophie,” Mrs. Fitz said, gentle. “What I meant was I couldn’t imagine being the same, never changing.”

“Well, they’re different from us in that regard, or I would imagine anyway. But it’s not like they don’t change at all. Being alive means changing.”

“The whole deviancy thing, yes. I know,” Mrs. Fitz said. “I know. But can you imagine looking the same forever? Your lover growing older as you—”

“That was my second thing Mrs. Fitz.” Frankly Sophie was exasperated, and she was reaching the end of her rope. “I can’t believe you seriously thought you were going to hook me up with him.”

Mrs. Fitz shrugged, not even guilty in the slightest. “You seemed to find him attractive, he seemed to be taken with you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do not be so coy, I know you find yourself attractive. Others do too. And just because he's an android doesn't mean he wouldn't know something beautiful when he saw one. And Sophie, I think you’re forgetting the most important thing. _He_ would—"

No. No. Not...

Her heart seized. “Please don’t mention his name,” she begged, her voice dangerously close to cracking. “Please.”

“I wasn’t. I was only going to say he would want you to be happy. You deserve someone.”

A phrase Sophie often heard. You deserve someone. Too often. During Thanksgiving, Sophie’s mother told her that there was somebody out there for everyone. Sophie considered the statement and had a few retorts, some of which she shared with her mother, others she didn’t. The one thing she did say was that maybe Anthony was her person, her only. To which her mother replied that there had to be someone else out there. She was young. She couldn’t live her entire life alone, because that was just absurd to live a life alone. Yet what Sophie didn’t retort was that there were thousands of people who never met anyone. They were still happy. She could find happiness too.

She didn’t want to get into a long diatribe that morning with Mrs. Fitz. It was the beginning of the year anyway. There would be many long diatribes that year, of that she was sure. It was best to save them for when they were important. But she did admit to Mrs. Fitz that the concept of someone “hooking her up” was uncomfortable.

“My first, you know,” she explained, careful not to say his name, because names had power and in saying his name she would remember how she used to say it, lowly in his ear when they were alone, “we were friends first. Then one day I realized I loved him, and that was that. Isabelle, Karina, Liz,” she said, listing some of her friends. “You know, they go out, they casually date. I tried that. It made me uncomfortable. If I ever fall in love again, I guarantee it will be because were friends first.”

She had doubts. Love was so wonderful, looking at it from the outside and observing. For herself, it was exhausting.

But worth it, in the end. She couldn’t deny that. She loved love and loved what she had. It was so wonderful to have once. How could she be lucky enough to have it again?

“That is fair,” Mrs. Fitz said, breaking Sophie’s thoughts. “Good. Live your life and make yourself happy.” She leaned in. “But. I would like to point out. You were blushing at that boy.”

“If I admit I find him aesthetically pleasing will you stop harping on it?”

“Sweetheart. You don’t have to. You already did.”

She was going to have to let that one slide. “Part of it was I did met him before he was on TV Mrs. Fitz.”

Sophie offered a rough version of events in the park, Mrs. Fitz listening carefully. “I did some research,” she explained. “After I met him. CyberLife had been working for a few years on developing an android for police investigations, and they were finally successful. In August there was an incident with an android taking a little girl hostage. Connor was there.”

Sophie was able to pull up the interview the mother of the little girl did. She told the interviewer she was in hysterics and inconsolable, the hysterics growing tenfold when she found out they were sending in an android and not a “real person.” But Connor did it. He saved her, and she said in the interview that she wanted, more than anything, to thank him.

Mrs. Fitz listened, enraptured. “So that’s your Connor?”

“He was the Connor I met in the park,” she corrected. “The one that was here.”

“The one that’s here now.”

“No,” Sophie said. “That—”

“I told you he would be back. When I have I ever been wrong?”

As she recalled, she did want Mrs. Fitz to be right. She didn’t think she could be so bold to expect him back, but even if she did, to have him back this soon? It wasn’t normal to cross paths with someone so often. It wasn’t normal to met people in the park and ask existential questions with them either.

Then again, was Sophie’s life ever normal? She made a living as an actress, doing the unnatural in pretending to be other people, especially when the likes of Oscar Wilde once said be yourself, everyone else is already taken? Yet in her career, and in her walking in the shoes of others, she learned what it meant to be truly human. She learned she would always learn. She could go smaller even, because she was still learning what it meant to be Sophia Noelle Hartley.

Whether crossing paths with Connor for the third time was fate, chance, or something else, she wasn’t sure. Was she a spectator of the fate of her life, or was everything that happened because of her choices? Both were difficult to conceive. To know every step, every little thing that happened was because of her, it may have been a little better. But how could she live, knowing that—

Yet to think that what happened was supposed to happen was excruciating.

She learned in her time living as others, that life was hurting. Partly anyway. A lot of hurt yes, but she also learned it could be beautiful. She had to believe that.

She did. She did.

Connor came into the shop. Connor looked at her, observed. There was always wonder in his eyes, even before. Wonder. It was such a beautiful part of being alive.

“Connor,” Mrs. Fitz greeted warmly, smiling at him as he came to the counter. “Good to see you again.”

“Hello Mrs. Fitz,” he greeted in turn, strong and clear.

Sophie smiled. He was softer when he bade Sophie “hello.”

“Connor,” Sophie muttered, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. “Hello.”

“I know who you are.”

Sophie’s eyes widened at Mrs. Fitz’s bold statement. She wasn’t sure what Connor’s train of thought was as she spoke about what happened on the TV that night, but Connor humored her, listening to her regale how she figured out who he was, and how amazing it was that he did that.

“Thank you,” he replied simply when she finished.

“Isn’t it exciting to think of how you’ll be in the history books one day?”

Sophie wondered if he wavered, if there truly was regret in his eye.

“I hope they know it was my choice,” he said. “It was what I wanted to do.”

Of course it was what you wanted to do. Of course, Sophie chanted in her mind, but didn’t say. It would be too bold to say.

Mrs. Fitz complimented him, beaming. “You are very brave Connor.”

“I’m not brave.”

“No.”

It was Sophie who spoke next, Connor blinking, turning his attention to her. He was puzzled. He shouldn’t have been.

“You were,” she said. “It’s not easy to walk an unknown path.”

“It wasn’t unknown. I always returned to CyberLife tower after every mission. I knew what path to walk.”

Mrs. Fitz did a poor job at stifling her laughter. “No dear, no. She meant it—”

“Metaphorically,” Sophie offered, gently. “What I meant was it’s difficult to do things that aren’t innate, or aren’t necessarily easy.”

“You’re right.”

He made her feel important, when they spoke. It was all in the way he looked at her. “It’s worth it,” she said, feeling the to need to avert her eyes a little, lest she grow a little too hot.

He didn’t reply immediately. She feared he didn’t agree. She feared he didn’t think that what happened was worth it.

At last, there it was: the faintest hint of a nod, and smile. She exhaled a breath she didn’t even know she held.

“It’s not easy,” he admitted. “It didn’t used to bother me before, but…”

He didn’t continue. “But what?” Sophie asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

It was probably a good thing Mrs. Fitz started talking and asking what brought Connor back to the shop, otherwise Sophie likely would have said something very stupid as she was wont to do when the silence got strange.

Connor straightened, getting ready to speak again, and pointing toward the window. “I noticed it the other day, the sign on the door,” he said, “and I was wondering if, maybe I could, or maybe you would consider hiring me?”

He was practically boyish, shrugging his shoulders and scrunching his face as if he was preparing for a hard no from Mrs. Fitz. “Please?” he asked, during Mrs. Fitz’s moment of quiet shock, a moment she shared with Sophie.

He wanted to work. Connor, the android developed by CyberLife to aid police investigations, wanted to work at her bookstore.

Well. Stranger things had happened.

“Well,” Mrs. Fitz began, and once again Sophie was grateful she began to speak. “This is quite…funny.”

“I’ll leave if you wish,” Connor said. “I didn’t mean to startle, or amuse. I wanted—”

“No dear,” Mrs. Fitz quickly assured, playfully whacking his arm as she had done with Sophie. Connor didn't flinch, but rather he seemed mildly amused by it. “I was just thinking," Mrs. Fitz continued, "it’s funny because Sophie said the other day if an android walked in the shop asking for a job, I should hire them. If they did a good job of course.”

“I can assure you, you can count on me,” Connor said, a touch proud.

“Then you’re hired.”

Sophie couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Fitz must have noticed her face, gob smacked as it was, but as she explained to Sophie that she really needed the help, the sign had been there for a while and there was no one else, she would be happy to give Connor the job.

“I was under the impression the hiring process would take longer,” Connor said, very reasonably, Sophie thought. “Hank said you would probably need a resume, but I wasn’t sure—”

“Sweetheart, I saw you on TV. That’s good enough, I promise.”

“He did other things besides appear on TV,” Sophie thought to mention.

“There is one thing though. I have to ask why would you want to work here? Wouldn’t you want to do something more exciting? Compared to what you did before this all seems rather dull.”

Connor’s face was unreadable. “I don’t think so.”

“I stand here a lot, dust and shelve books,” Sophie said, seeing no reason to lie. “We get an occasional customer, yes, but it’s a lot of standing and sitting and waiting.”

“I sit a lot too, and stand, and wait. What’s wrong with sitting here with you two?”

“Oh I’ll be gone most of the time, so it’ll be just you and Sophie.”

She didn’t think she heard Mrs. Fitz correctly. “I—what?”

“Well don’t act so shocked girl,” Mrs. Fitz said. “You’ve been saying I should spend more time at home anyway, and now that we have Connor, I can. You can train him. I believe in you.”

“Mrs. Fitz.”

She turned back to Connor, changing her tune to something sweeter and less done. “When can you start? Tomorrow?”

“Is there anything I should fill out?” Connor asked. “Hank said there might be things to sign and I would have to tell you my schedule, but I can work whenever because—”

“We can take care of it tomorrow,” she assured, coming round to pat him on the shoulder. Connor was so tall and Mrs. Fitz was so tiny she barely hit his shoulders. “Welcome to the Corner Bookstore Connor. Starting wage is…”

“Wait, Mrs. Fitz. I can’t train him,” Sophie insisted. “I—”

“Don’t worry,” Connor said. “I’m a fast learner.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow morning to help you two get started. And to give you the papers to sign of course, and we can discuss a schedule. But Sophie, don’t sell yourself short,” Mrs. Fitz scolded. “You’re smart.”

Connor stood in agreement. “You are."

The compliment was unexpected. So too, was him saying that walking a new path was usually worth it.

“Uh…maybe you’re right,” Sophie said. “Maybe.”

“Someone very wise said it. She said a lot of wise things.”

“I…”

He winked at her. She stared.

“Thank you again Mrs. Fitz,” he said, gathering himself. “Maybe I should go now though, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Fitz said. “Ten o’clock tomorrow?”

“Ten,” Connor repeated. “I’ll be back tomorrow at ten. Goodbye Mrs. Fitz. Sophie.”

She stupidly waved goodbye until the bells tingled and the door closed. She still couldn’t believe he winked at her.

“I don’t understand it,” Mrs. Fitz barked a moment after he disappeared from view. “You do say I should stay at home more, you can take care of it…well now you have someone you seem to enjoy the presence of, and you don’t want to—”

“I do not enjoy his presence,” Sophie said. “Well, I don’t not enjoy, but he’s just a…a…”

“A person?”

It figured Mrs. Fitz would throw her words back at her, even though that was not where Sophie was going with that.

“He’s someone,” she said.

“Does it make you uncomfortable Sophie, being alone with him? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable,” she assured. “He’s different, that’s all. He reminds me of…”

“Oh sweetheart. I didn’t know.”

“Not Anthony.” She took a deep breath. “No. He reminds me of something, that’s all.”

“You don’t know what ‘something’ is?”

“No.”

“Then I’m confused. How do you know he reminds you of something if you don’t know what it is?”

“It’s just hard to articulate,” she stated.

Mrs. Fitz waggled her brows. “Want to try?”

“Not out loud.”

“Oh, but you are stubborn.”

It wasn’t that she was stubborn. It was that she truly did have a hard time articulating the things Connor made her recall. Old movies for one, he evoked the likes of Laurence Olivier, Tyrone Power and Humphrey Bogart in his posture and his hair and the way he seemed to live in classic black and white. Those old films of black and white, they always held a certain sway with her, so that was likely part of her gravitation. If it was gravitation. But his eyes were like new, and perhaps she was too quick to say that he didn’t remind her of Anthony. It wasn’t that they looked similar, though Anthony did have dark hair and brown eyes like Connor. Sometimes though, Anthony would have a wonder when he looked at Sophie. Connor had that same wonder. Beyond that, Connor’s eyes were his own. Real. Connor was his own.

He was her coworker. 


	8. Miss Hartley

Connor thought, to be polite, he would start referring to his coworker as “Miss Hartley.”

“Miss Hartley?” she repeated after Mrs. Fitz left, turning to face him. “Miss Hartley is so formal. And you’ve already been calling me Sophie.”

“Do you have a preference?”

She seemed amused. “No one has asked me for my preference in a long time,” she said. “Either one is fine. Though I suppose ‘Miss Hartley’ is interesting. But it’s whatever you prefer.”

She started drifting to the shelves, before something stopped her. Once again, she turned to face him. “But what about you?” she thought to ask. “If we are going to be formal, should I call you Mr…?”

Hank Anderson. Sophie Hartley. Connor.

“Only Connor,” he said, softly.

“Like Madonna then.”

He cocked his head.

“Never mind, I—” She touched her hair, then motioned for him to follow her. “Here. I’ll show you what we do.”

Sophie, or Miss Hartley as Connor referred to her, showed him the shelves of books, how they were organized, and what they did when new books came in. She showed him every shelf, every “genre” as she said, pointing, and frequently asking if he had any questions. He had none. Eventually a customer came in. Sophie called him Mr. Molina, and introduced him to Connor. He was an older man with grey in his dark hair and lines on his face, and he shook Connor’s hand. No one had wanted to shake his hand before. Connor wondered if he still would have if he knew the truth.

Mr. Molina browsed the store, and picked up a few new books. Sophie showed Connor how to make purchases at the register when he was done.

“It’s an older model,” Connor noted, looking at the register.

“We’re a bit old fashioned here, old world. You know.”

Connor nodded, understanding. She asked him if he had any questions so far. In response, he shook his head. He noted her heart rate was higher than average.

“It was good to meet you Connor,” Mr. Molina said after Sophie wrapped his books up. “I’ll be seeing you two again.”

“Goodbye,” Connor said, Sophie also wishing him a good day. Then she grabbed a few books, and disappeared behind the shelves. Connor watched her.

A while ago, Hank told Connor he shouldn’t scan people unless he had to. It was rude. People, they liked to get to know each other naturally. “They don’t like it when you dig through their business,” Hank said. It was one of the many things he said before Connor’s first day. He also said Connor should have probably figured out his pay and schedule before agreeing to go to work. But at least he had a job and “something to keep him occupied instead of babysitting the dog.”

But there was still more that Hank said. “Humans are complicated,” one of the things, spoken the night when Connor laid out his work outfit. But Connor already knew a lot about humans, he knew their unpredictability. He said that to Hank.

“There’s a difference between what you know, and I know,” Hank explained. “With females especially.”

Connor pointed out he had never seen him with a woman. Hank wasn’t amused about that comment. There was a main thing though that he reiterated. It was to be polite and respectful. And no winking either. It could come off as “creepy.” Connor hoped he didn’t creep Sophie out. So as he studied her in the shop, he maintained a distance.

She scanned the shelves, sticking a few books here and there. In the past when Connor observed it was all for a purpose. It was putting the pieces together and forming the full picture, so he may act. He had been observing Sophie since he first met her in the park, and the last times he saw her, but he didn’t know why. That there was no purpose to it. No purpose other than he wanted to. Now though, as coworkers, he thought he should get to know her better. He thought he should ask her things.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

Once again, she turned to look at him. The book in her hand didn’t make it to the shelf. She didn’t say anything. She was confused. Her heart rate was up again.

He wasn’t sure if she understood. “About yourself? Now that we’re coworkers, it would be great to get to know each other more.”

Sophie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. It was one thing he noticed about her—she did that frequently, like Hank said Connor rubbed his hands together a lot. “Idiosyncrasy,” Hank called it. That, and how Connor always checked his reflection and adjusted his tie, played with that coin. Sophie had a few idiosyncrasies other than touching her hair as well, like how her eyes would drift away to somewhere else. Hank was like that, deep in thought sometimes, going from his thoughts to the present. Sophie was different. It took her a while to come back, if she came back. It reminded Connor of times before. He wondered if he had ever fully come back.

He studied her full form. She had a presence that seemed larger than herself. Not in that her hair was big and an easy to notice color, full of ringlets, or that she was tall, even more so with her heeled shoes. Connor was still taller, and when he stood near her she had to tilt her head some. She even wore a lot of skirts that extended a little, skirts with patterns. She had a voice that was neither soft nor hard, but easy to hear. Pleasant. He noticed her. He had been noticing her. She would always be noticed.

Her palms locked. She seemed to be thinking. “What would you like to know?” she asked, at last.

Anything. He wanted to know anything. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

Maybe it was too broad. She didn’t answer, at first. Then she gave him her name. Sophie Hartley. He already knew it, but it was a start. Then she started to tell him things he didn’t know. She was twenty five years old. She acted.

“Or I used to, anyway,” she noted.

Used to. He asked about that.

“It’s been a while,” she replied, setting a book down as Connor came a little closer. “My friends and I started our own theatre company after college—The Renaissance Players. We have our own theatre and everything.”

He tried to imagine it, see what she was talking about. “What’s it like?”

“Small, but it’s ours, and we get people in seats. My dad is a carpenter actually, and he helped us get the place running. It’s a pretty nice place.”

“Do you go there often?”

“Not… in a while.”

“Oh.”

He looked at the ground. Her shoes were red, bright against the wood floor. She told him maybe it would be nice to go again.

“Soon?” he wondered.

“Maybe.”

She drifted past the shelves. There wasn’t a lot of customers that came in during the week, Sophie said, changing the subject of conversation, but sometimes one of Mrs. Fitz’s “regulars” liked to come in and sell and exchange. When the door opened a little later and the bells tingled, the woman that walked in was one such “regular.” Sherry was her name, a tall woman with pulled back blonde hair and green eyes. Like the previous Mr. Molina, she knew Sophie, and the two greeted each other. She smiled at Connor when he introduced himself, said she was glad Mrs. Fitz had more help. She had an easy laugh as she talked about wanting to clear space in her house. Sophie laughed as well.

“I see the Renaissance is doing _Much ado about Nothing_ ,” Sherry said to Sophie. “Will you be in it?”

“Not this time,” Sophie said. Her voice wavered, when she spoke.

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that. I think you would have been wonderful.”

Sophie pulled some money from the register, handing it to Sherry. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“There’s always the next one, right?”

“Yes,” Sophie muttered. “There’s the next one.”

When she left, Sophie rested her head in her hands, taking a minute. Then she turned her attention back to Connor. “Makes sense, right?” she asked. “You just have to price the books, you know. Go by quality and how much we already have in our inventory.”

He understood. But he didn’t understand why she seemed somewhere else, and sad. He didn’t know if he should have asked.

He did anyway.

“I’m…fine though?” she said, strangely, suspiciously. “Why do you ask though?”

“Sometimes you’re somewhere else.”

Should he have also said that? She didn’t answer him, making him think he said the wrong thing. But finally, she looked at him. No suspicion, no anger. Sincerity.

“Maybe I am,” she said.

He wanted to ask her about the theatre and what else she did to get her back to where they were, but before he could, she asked him about himself.

“Me?” He was taken aback. He didn’t know what to say, where to begin.

“Yes, you.” There was a grin, a small laugh. “Like you said. We’re coworkers now.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, I don’t want to overstep my bounds.” She touched her hair again. “And I don’t know really—”

“I was designed to work seamlessly with humans,” Connor assured her. “Both my appearance and my voice was designed for my integration.”

“Is that why you look like a movie star?”

He didn’t know what she meant, but before he could ask, she assured him it didn’t matter and it wasn’t important. “You’re your own person now anyway,” she said. “Here. Working in this bookshop with me. Past doesn’t matter right?”

He wasn’t so sure. Not when he could remember everything, see it all again. Not when there was no forgetting. Or even if there was. So he told Sophie he didn’t know.

Before replying, she bit her lip. She considered. Then she told him that he was right. The past did matter. It was naïve to think it didn’t.

Silence followed. Her eyes skimmed over him. She looked at him as he often looked at her, seeking the full picture. Connor could see idiosyncrasies in the way she toyed with her hair and turned red, but there was more. There had to be more. He wanted to know. Not only because they were working together, but because he wanted to know.

“It’s the new year,” he said, trying to make “small talk,” as Hank called it. “Did you do anything on New Years?”

“Not really,” she replied. “I was with my dad. We drank eggnog, watched TV. That was about it.”

“I saw fireworks,” he said. “Not them all though. Sumo was on my lap. That’s Hank’s dog,” he said, seeing her confusion. “He likes me a lot.”

“And Hank is the one the book was for?”

Connor nodded. “Hank’s my friend. He didn’t have to let me stay at his house, but he did. I’m hoping to repay him. Sometimes I do things around the house, or walk Sumo. I would do it anyway though, I like to walk him.”

“It’s nice of you,” she said. “What kind of dog is he?”

“A Saint Bernard. Do you like dogs?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I like dogs.”

He decided to ask her if she had any. “When I was little, yes,” she replied. “Her name was Lady, she was a cocker spaniel. Now I have a cat. Well—" she crossed her arms. “Technically the cat isn’t mine. He’s the apartment’s cat. He just comes by my window a lot. But I named him Tybalt. After the Prince of cats, like in _Romeo and Juliet_. I was in the play at the time I found him, and I was actually Tybalt and…” Her words trailed. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Do you want to tell me?”

She waved her hand. “It’s alright. It’s stupid anyway.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No, it is. It…” she took a deep breath, looked anywhere but at Connor. She did that a lot, look away from him when she didn’t want to talk. Another idiosyncrasy. But not everything had to be filled with talk. Connor knew that. Sometimes he liked silence, like the silence at the park, when snow fell on the water. She didn’t have to talk, if she didn’t want to. He just liked it better, when she talked to him, because her voice was nice and she was nice. So he asked if she saw any fireworks on New Years.

“Not really,” she said. “I honestly don’t like fireworks that much.”

He was surprised. They were nice in the sky. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “They’re loud. They’re over with too soon.”

But when they were there, they lit up the sky, even through the window. “That doesn’t mean they’re not nice, while they last.”

She looked at him, and she smiled. Not a big one, but a smile. He liked it when she smiled.

“Maybe the most beautiful things are temporary,” she said.

Even though he hoped not, he smiled back. He smiled even though there was truth to that and he didn’t want there to be. He wanted things to last, because he would last. He was built to last.

Built. Designed. What was it like to be like Sophie or Hank, who held no task nor mission, and just lived, and never had to make the choice to live?

Maybe she did make choices, just in a different way. Maybe they weren’t so different.

“But…maybe there are some things that are beautiful that do last forever."

She smiled again, and he thought about what she said. He saw the smile wasn’t sad anymore.

She stated, “it’s our job though to keep them alive."

He didn’t want to say anything wrong. But he didn’t have to say anything, he realized, as she came closer to him. It wasn’t close enough for them to touch, but it was enough for him to see gold around her eyes. Sometimes she didn’t look at him. He liked it when she did. He liked moments like this.

“People that live and are alive,” she said. “We always learn.”

“You think I’m alive?”

The smile. It was even broader. “You are here, we are talking, and I can see something in your eyes. You are alive.”

He felt warm. Good. “It’s good you think so, Miss Hartley.”

She shook her head. “Sophie.”

“Miss Hartley?”

“No. Sophie. I want you to call me Sophie.”

“Sophie,” he repeated. It was a soft name, but a good name.

“And your name is Connor,” she said. “It’s a good name.”

“I don’t know what it means yet, but—”

“Hey. I still don’t know what it means to be Sophie. But let’s learn.”

Sophie was pretty. Pretty in a way the flowers in the park were, easy to notice from far away because of their vibrancy. Sophie was vibrant, even when she was sad. But there could be beauty in the sad. There could be nice things in learning. Nice things, in doing it together.


	9. The Day They Looked Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so my lovely friend @ladymdc actually commissioned the art for this chapter from the amazing @lonicera-caprifolium  
> from tumblr, and I cannot tell you how much I love and appreciate him :) thank you so, so much!  
> also this chapter has spoilers for the musical Hamilton.

 

In the week that followed Connor’s first day, he and Sophie developed a system. Mostly Sophie handled customers while Connor swept and organized books. Sometimes he also dusted. During the period Mrs. Fitz’s regulars came in, and Connor introduced himself to them all in that same way of his, that strong and clear, _hello, my name is Connor_. No one recognized him, and if they suspected he was an android, they said nothing. Connor simply existed as a young man, perhaps with a certain face that held familiarity, but not something they could put their finger on. Sophie wondered what would have happened if they would have known, but there was something about Connor sans LED that allowed anonymity. Maybe that was why he took it off. Though Connor also had the advantage of being the unique RK800 prototype. She wondered if she would ever see another model like him, or if any even existed. Since the revolution CyberLife had ceased business practices. Of course, even if there were other Connors, none of them would be her Connor.

When payday came that Friday, Mrs. Fitz made the check out to Hank Anderson, because Connor didn’t have a bank account. “Make sure he gives you your money,” Mrs. Fitz told him, wagging her finger at him. Connor left after, wishing the two a nice weekend, and he would see them Monday. He waved. Sophie waved back.

After he was gone Mrs. Fitz asked Sophie what she thought an android would spend his money on.

“Rent money,” she said. “For Hank. Maybe some dog treats too for the Saint Bernard, I don’t know.”

“You’ve been with him this entire week, you don’t ask him things?”

“Well sure,” Sophie replied. “We talk, but not all the time.”

“Not all the time?”

Sophie was, generally speaking, quiet and introverted. Though with those she held comfortable familiarity with, she had the potential to be loud and boisterous, maybe even annoying in some regards. Connor did not make her uncomfortable, but he did not engage in much conversation after that first day, and whether that was because he too was shy, didn’t want to ask anything inappropriate, or he just found her boring, she didn’t know. Frankly too she was so concerned with not overstepping her bounds she said little.

It didn’t mean however, she didn’t want to ask him things. She wanted to know the moment he understood, the moment he stopped being an android sent by CyberLife and started being Connor. She wanted to know what it was like when he brought the other androids to Markus. She wanted to know if he found joy in being alive. She hoped so.  
She wanted to know it all, but she did not ask. She wondered if that was wrong of her. She wondered what was so inept with her that she found herself merely casting glances at him, standing on a precipice and wanting to break that divide, but not able to.

“He’s sweet, Mrs. Fitz,” Sophie said. Sweet and new and full of wonder.

“Endearing?”

“Perhaps.”

Mrs. Fitz snorted. “Perhaps?”

“He’s Connor,” Sophie settled, knowing damn well Connor was endearing, even in their silence. Endearing with his constant tie adjusting, mirror looking, hand rubbing, and looking around. Sometimes he even fiddled with a quarter. He looked at her, and she felt important. She felt like she wasn’t drifting. He wanted her there. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was afraid if she started blabbing his opinions would change. Yet it was still nice to be important. It made her stop drifting, even temporarily.

Even her father noticed a change when she visited him. He was amused when she told him the goings on of the Corner Bookstore. By that time another week had passed, with much the same things going on between the two coworkers, and another check made out to Hank Anderson. Their system continued, Sophie even beginning to let Connor handle customers while she did other things around the shop. She was even starting to let him mind the shop by himself while she ate her lunch.

“You do seem happier,” her father noted again over their Sunday brunch and she talked about her days. “This Connor must be good for you.”

She smirked. “You sound like Mrs. Fitz. I think she wants to hook me up. Please don’t do the same thing or I swear I will storm out.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

But he made a face as he sipped his coffee, and it was a face that made her question a few things about herself and her own intentions. As she reminded herself, she did, after all, drift to the park during Christmas, wondering if he too would be there. Perhaps the truth was that she wanted to relieve memories of Anthony, but that thought, the thought of this was where I met Connor, was also there. She couldn’t deny she had that thought. This is where I saw him. Will I see him again?

“What?”

“Oh.” Sophie set her fork down. She had been mumbling to herself. Her and her mumbling to herself wasn’t anything new, at least she had kept it to a minimum when she was at the shop, though with her father her guard was down. “I was just thinking,” she said, “we met that night and then he became my coworker. You wouldn’t expect something so convenient to happen outside of the theatre, or a book.”

“This is real life Sophie,” her father said. “There’s no playwright to dictate who walks in where.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I don’t question why things happen anymore,” he stated. “They just do.”

Her father told her that when she sobbed into his arms one night after it happened, right after she woke up from the hospital after the accident. It was only later that she knew why he chose those words instead of others, so wrapped up in her sorrow was she for the longest time, and still was sometimes. But one day she understood why her father only looked forward. She realized for him, it was easier to just allow things to happen and to live, than to dwell wonder why the woman he loved left him for another man.

Sophie tried to be like her father. She tried not to dwell, wonder why what happened had to happen. She just found it a little more difficult.

Her father continued speaking, putting more butter on his pancakes. “You met again, he’s your coworker, and you seem to be getting along,” he rationalized. “Be his friend. Perhaps he needs one.”

Sophie however, had a confession. “We don’t really talk that much, actually.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re with him in that bookshop from nine to five and you hardly talk?”

She explained they talked the first day, and he agreed to call her by her first name rather than the more formal “Miss Hartley,” but she told her father what she didn’t tell Mrs. Fitz: she was embarrassed to start a conversation, and frankly didn’t know what to ask him other than the basics, which they had already gone through.

“Sophie,” her father said, mock scolding. “Be nosy.”

“I don’t want to overstep my bounds,” she said in her defense. “I think there’s a reason he’s in the bookshop. He wants to be normal. Well, I hate that word,” she said, diverting the subject. “It’s the word people made up to use against anyone that didn’t fit their ideas. But Connor…I...uh…”

She was having trouble articulating again. She was beginning to think she shouldn’t speak for Connor either. “I just think he wants to experience,” she at last concluded. “Experience and live.”

“And asking him things is somehow wrong?”

“Dad.”

“You know I love you, but I must ask: how did you make friends?”

She snorted. In school there was bonding over a common purpose and goal and developing friendships that way. But she sat and she thought about it. She and Connor, they had the same goals and purposes by way of working in the same place.

She resolved to be nosy on Monday. She resolved, without overstepping her bounds, to ask him things and get to know him. Not as the android she met in the park, nor as the man she saw on TV. She wanted to get to know Connor.

 

* * *

 

When the new week started the next day, she put her best foot forward. Quite literally too, she was wearing her favorite black and white shoes with a simple black skirt and matching turtleneck. She gathered herself, took a deep breath as she waited, and eventually, Connor came in.

“Hello Sophie,” he greeted cheerily. “I hope you had a good weekend.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I did, I did.”

He began to head to the shelves to start organizing. It was her chance, her chance to be nosy, ask him all the things.

“So.”

She realized as soon as her mouth opened she didn’t plan that far ahead. Patiently, Connor waited to hear whatever it is she was going to say, she meanwhile only succeeding in making herself look like an even bigger fool.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” she stammered.

He blinked at her. That might have been the first direct question she asked him since his first day. It wasn’t the worst thing to ask perhaps, but certainly not creative. She had to salvage something.

“You and Hank do anything special?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t presumptive to ask about Hank.

“Hank has been busy,” Connor replied. “He’s been at the station a lot.”

“Did you and Sumo do anything then?” She hoped again that wasn’t a stupid question.

“A little,” he replied. “I went places. Walking and thinking.”

Where he was perhaps wasn’t as important as the thoughts themselves. She knew that from her own life, her own experiences. “I do that a lot,” she said.

“I think therefore I am.”

It was a phrase, written on the walls of the city before the revolution and after. _I think, therefore I am. We are people. We are alive_.

“You are.”

She spoke without thinking, for once not worrying about implications or drowning in her own awkwardness. She didn’t regret it she found, not when his brows were furrowed, and he was troubled. The least she could do was tell him the truth, tell him what she saw.

“You think so?” he asked, softly.

“I know so,” she assured him without taking a beat. “We don’t talk a lot, I know. But…” she added as a caveat, “We did a lot that first day, got to know each other, you know. But there’s still a lot we can learn. And we always can talk if you want. We can talk about anything in the world.”

She thought he grinned, was more at ease. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I’ll remember that.”

Yet still after, more silence filled the room. She considered jumping through the store window. In fact, she was convinced she was going to, until Connor, softly and quietly, and eyes downcast, muttered that he was glad to be in the bookshop, and it was good to be there.

It touched her. “I’m glad you think so,” she said with a smile.

“You don’t…”

She waited for him to finish. “I don’t want?” she asked when he didn’t, hoping she wasn’t prodding.

“You don’t treat me differently.”

He really did have kind brown eyes. Long ago she had stopped thinking of them as android eyes and only saw them as eyes. Some may have even called them puppy eyes. She though, considered them only as Connor’s eyes, full of wonder. Wonder and sometimes hope and longing.

She felt the small creeping of a blush. She didn’t want that. Best to change the subject. “What about Hank?” she asked quickly, figuring there was at least him— what with Connor being roommates with him and all.

“Hank doesn’t count. Neither does Sumo. But even Hank hated androids for the longest time.” He turned away briefly. “He doesn’t anymore.”

He didn’t continue, stopping as if he thought his next words would be inadequate or misplaced. Stupid even. Once he asked her to continue speaking, when she thought her words were stupid and unnecessary. She chose not to, too afraid of being seen as stupid. Life though, was full of stupid choices and stupid things. She needed to learn how to embrace it. It didn’t have to be like that for Connor.

“It’s not stupid, if that’s what you think,” she said gently.

“I don’t know.”

She felt a pang of defeat. Maybe it was what she deserved. No one could call him evasive when they were first getting acquainted with each other, but she felt so stuck in her own head sometimes and far too socially awkward that talking could be difficult at certain points. Perhaps talking with him wasn’t her worst bout of social interaction, but she also had to wonder if she was this way because of what he was. Try as she might to deny it, it was still a thought. He was different from her, in so many ways.

But she needed to stop thinking of him as different. He wasn’t different. He thought. He lived. He was. He asked her if she was all right that day in the park. And even if it was just to be nice, he asked her things. He was curious. He cared.

_Say something. Talk to him._

“Hey,” she said, maybe too cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind me asking you…?”

“No.”

“So quick,” she said with a smile. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“You can ask me anything.”

Touched again, she felt a little silly to ask something so basic as his living arrangements, something he mentioned already. Connor indulged her anyway, and told her Hank was the police lieutenant he was assigned to work with before the revolution, and after it ended, he let Connor stay at his house.

“This weekend we’re going to see Knights of the Black Death,” he added, a hint of excitement in his words.

When he waltzed into the bookstore at the end of December, he did wear a Knights of the Black death hoodie. She only saw him wear it that one time, as since then he had been wearing button downs and ties, keeping a professional appearance. She did however, admit that she didn’t really take Connor for a heavy metal fan.

“Well. Hank plays the records a lot,” Connor explained, coming to the counter, putting his hands on it. “It’s full of energy.”

Honest to god, Sophie hated Knights of the Black Death. It was all the more unfortunate because Anthony loved them. She had the misfortune of going to a concert for them once, and because Anthony was very firm on wanting to see the sweat trickle down their faces, she was seated in the third row of the stadium. Her ears never recovered.

She didn’t tell Connor that. She only smiled and nodded, and agreed, before asking if there was more music he enjoyed. She certainly hoped so.

“A little jazz. But I’d like to hear more. I don’t really listen to music as such," he said, observing her in that intent way he often did, the way that made her feel important. “Do you like music?” he asked after a pause.

“All kinds,” she answered. “Mostly oldies and musicals. But…wait.” She double-taked. “You said you don’t listen to music?”

“Not the way you would. I would imagine anyway.”

She clicked her heels against the floor. Sophie was always called a passionate woman, and there were certainly a few things she held passion for. Music was one of them. “Oh come now,” she said, hoping she wasn’t chiding. “Music is music. You turn it on, and you get swept away. I’m sure when Hank plays his jazz or Knights of the Black Death, you get swept away, right?”

He considered. “I don’t think so?”

“Well.” She put her hands on her hips. “You may need to listen to other things. Knights of the Black Death, they’re great and all, and sure I suppose you could get swept away with their lyrics about the black plague and going on the fields to die…” She repressed a smirk at the fib. “but there’s other stuff out there that can just take you away and make you feel like you’re drifting along.”

“Can you show me?”

It was the middle of the work day. Sure, sometimes there were long stretches without customers, as there was then, but Mrs. Fitz generally liked it when Sophie looked busy. However—

The request was so earnest. His eyes were so earnest. What was the harm in pulling out her music player and handing him the headphones?

She did, and when she did, he held them in his hands, brought one muff to his ear.

“Put it on your head like a headband,” she said, trying not to laugh. “Don’t hold it to your ear.”

He didn’t know what she meant. Leaning against the counter, she motioned for the headphones and helped him by sticking them over his head. He placed his hands over the muffs, like he was afraid they would fall off if he didn’t keep them like that. She was so amused by the sight of him like that she almost forgot she was supposed to pick something for him to listen to. Remembering, she scanned her library, wondering what pick, what wasn’t too embarrassing. Going through the As, one thing struck out to her: “Alexander Hamilton.”

 _Hamilton._ One of her favorite things. She picked it, and through the headphones she could hear the opening lyrics sung by Aaron Burr. _How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman…_

Connor, puzzled, glanced at her. She paused the music. “This is a musical,” she explained. “It’s like a story told through song.”

“Oh,” he muttered. “Right. It’s just a little…odd.”

“Musicals can be a hard sell for some,” Sophie admitted. “Some people can’t get past the whole ‘I have to sing my feelings’ thing, but I guess it never bothered me. I love musicals, and this one is one of my favorites. It came out around the time I was born, and my mom used to sing it to me and play it around the house. It’s about the life and times of Alexander Hamilton,” she continued to explain, egged on by his blank face. “Hamilton. You know. Founding father, secretary of the treasury, and—”

“I know who Alexander Hamilton is Sophie.”

“Oh.” She felt her heart pump. “Right. I’m sorry. Go ahead and listen.”

“Shouldn’t I work?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “You shouldn’t have to shelve books, that’s why I’m here.”

“I’d shelve books anyway,” she promised. “Besides. You need to listen to Hamilton. Anyone comes in, we just turn it off then turn it back on.”

It had been a while since Sophie listened to the musical in its entirety, and vaguely she could hear it through the headphones. She tried not to stare at him, but in between stacking the new shipment of mass market paperbacks from the nineties she couldn’t help but sneak a few peaks. He still had one hand on one of the earmuffs while the other held her music player. His tall frame leaned against the counter, he read as neither amused nor bored, perhaps quizzical. It was like he was concentrating on both the lyrics and the melody and deciphering them.

When Hamilton’s big number “My Shot” came on, it was the first change she saw in his demeanor. That was the first song where his form changed, and it was the first song, she realized, he became swept away.

 _Rise up, when you’re living on your knees_ , Hamilton sang. And she wondered if that was even a surprise that the song for him resonated so.

The music played on. Eventually he was on “The Schuyler Sisters,” one of her favorite songs. A favorite song, that had one of her favorite lyrics in theatre: _Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now._ She even had that thought that night she saw him on the TV. History happened and was happening still in Detroit, her Detroit, and though there was a contempt in familiarity, she had the thought that perhaps she was lucky enough to be alive right now, in the greatest city in the world.

“Is something wrong?”

Connor paused the music, took the headphones off and came near her, concerned.

“No,” she replied, leaning against the shelves. “I was only thinking.”

He had a look, a look that asked about what. You’re so secretive Sophie, her father always told her. Drifting off to your own world.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be so secretive.

“I was thinking that the song you’re listening to. I sang it to myself when I was a little girl,” she revealed. “And I was also thinking that when I saw Markus…and yourself, on TV that night, I thought of this song.”

“With the history is happening part?”

“History is happening,” she confirmed. “Yes. That, and other things.”

“But we live in Detroit, not Manhattan.”

She chuckled. “Detroit, Manhattan…same thing.”

“But it’s not.”

“Let me explain it this way,” she said, still laughing and hoping over to the counter where Connor was, sitting atop it. “You can find familiarity in art, things that remind you of other things. So sure, ‘The Schuyler Sisters,’ is about being excited in Manhattan, and witnessing the American Revolution, but also, sometimes, people hear a song and they find it applicable in other areas. So for me, when I saw what happened in November, I was reminded of this song, And then I heard it now and it reminded me of it again.”

His subconscious might have found familiarity in “My Shot,” but she wasn’t sure he understood what all she was referring to with the applicability bit. Yet that was all right, there was still a lot more to go.

“Do you like it?” she asked. “So far anyway?”

“I think so. It’s interesting.”

“Good. Want to listen on?”

“Want to listen together?”

She did, now that she thought of it. So when Connor handed her the music player, she took off the headphones and let the music play through the store. He helped her shelve, the album and Hamilton’s story continuing. The bells tingled overhead eventually, signaling Mr. Molina. They decided not to stop the music.

“Ah, _Hamilton_ ,” Mr. Molina said fondly as he browsed. “Would you know that I saw the original production live in New York?”

“Lucky,” Sophie said with a smile as he made his selection, and she watched Connor confirm his purchases. “I saw it when I was a girl, and then about a few years ago when the tour came to Detroit. I would love to see it again.”

Connor wrapped up the books. “I would like to see it too.”

The music continued after Mr. Molina left as both Sophie and Connor organizing at opposite ends of the shop. The older she became the more some songs meant to her than they did when she was younger, “Wait for it,” one of them. As a child when her mother sang to her she never really thought of the lyrics or the meaning, but as she grew up, and especially after the accident, _life doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints…_

It mattered. It became applicable.

She could see too, that to Connor, it also mattered. His back may have been turned toward her, but she watched him consider the lyrics and consider the melody. He stopped momentarily, to only listen. He listened and she listened again, the whole show continuing with the goings on after the Revolution and to Hamilton’s death. And though the music and vocals were recorded over twenty years ago, Hamilton came to life again at the bookshop.

Sophie always knew that after a powerful performance ended, one that mattered, there was silence in the theatre. The bookshop was no theatre, and Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, Eliza, Anjelica, and all the rest may have only existed in their minds, but when she heard the silence after the final whispering lyric of who lives who dies, who tells your story, she knew. It mattered and it was important. It meant something. To her, and to Connor.

“It was Eliza.”

Sophie had drifted over to her music player, turning it off to allow the silence to continue. “She told his story, yes,” Sophie replied. “She lived."

“Do you think she knew she accomplished what she wanted?”

She didn’t know for sure, but she hoped so. “I chose to believe it,” Sophie said.

Connor considered that. He thought of it the rest of the day. And the next day, he came into the shop and asked her if she wanted to hear _Hamilton_ again.

She smiled. “I would love to.”

Perhaps they didn’t speak much the rest of the week. But Sophie played more music for him, branching on to other musicals and even just letting her entire library play. She was convinced by the time Friday rolled around, they listened to almost every song she had. It amused her to no end he seemed to really like the Beach Boys, and other bands from the sixties and seventies, though not all the songs charmed him. “Lucy in the sky with Diamonds” in particular, and a few Fleetwood Mac songs made him scrunch his nose, but at least he was broadening his horizons. As well, he liked musicals and did not find them inherently bad, though he certainly didn’t care for _Oklahoma!_  They always came back to Hamilton however, and Sophie, reminiscing a few days later, told him the anecdote she recalled long ago: there were Hamiltons who never threw away their shots in the world, and there were Burrs, who waited for it.

She admitted she was mostly a Burr, before asking Connor what he thought he as. He admitted he didn’t know.

“That’s alright, you can find out. Besides,” she added, “It’s good to have qualities of both.”

He nodded at that. “Both. Right. Know when to wait for it, know when not to throw away you’re shot.”

“Exactly.”

They listened the whole week. It made it go by very quick. Friday came very quickly, and Sophie told him to enjoy the Knights of the Black Death concert, but not too much.  
He said he would, and he smiled at her as he left. He took one last look before the door closed. Mrs Fitz, who came to sign the check, was quick to notice that look.

“So,” she said, hands on her hips. “Talk to him much?”

“Yes, we talked,” Sophie said. Yes, they talked out loud, but they also talked in other ways, and perhaps they were ways that meant more than mindless chatter. It wasn’t in the words they said or the conversations they had, though they did have good ones and she liked to hear what he had to say about the music and other things. But they spoke to each other through the songs she played. Once even, he caught her swaying her hips, dancing along to a waltz with an imaginary partner.

She stopped in her tracks, when she saw that he had taken a notice to her “dancing.” She stopped, but there was no need. He was smiling at her as she danced. His smiles were few and far between, and when he did it was small and subtle. Yet his smile at her imaginary waltz to one of her favorite pieces of music that took her to a dream—it reached his eyes. She swore too, he even chuckled a little.

Connor’s laugh. She didn’t know then, how she would grow to treasure his laugh, carry each and every moment of his unabashed and free laughter around with her like he carried the coin he sometimes toyed with. At that moment it was only something that struck a chord in her, only something that she thought she perhaps would want to hear again. He deserved to laugh.

She danced on. For him, and because she wanted to dance.

Mrs. Fitz certainly noticed her blushing at the end of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I was going to commit to updating always on Monday, but they are probably going to be random, and for that I apologize. (but expect at least one update a week! :) )


	10. Conclusions

For Connor, Sophie filled the shop with her music. All music didn’t have to meet one’s taste, as Sophie said, but there were many songs he heard that had pleasant lyrics and melodies, songs he thought liked, especially as he heard them over again. The songs from _Hamilton,_ songs from artists who had long since died, but lived on through their songs. Humans didn’t live forever. Their art did.

There were others she played however that he wasn’t so sure why Sophie liked them so much. There was one band in particular called The Beatles who had hundreds of songs, and even though Sophie bopped her head to almost every one, there were many Connor didn’t understand. He still didn’t know who Lucy in the sky was, or why she had diamonds. Maybe it didn’t matter. Sophie said it didn’t, she liked the words. Though she stressed it was alright he didn’t.

He did like Hamilton though, a lot. So much so that certain phrases couldn’t get out of his head. _Rise up, when you’re living on your knees. Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now. Life doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?_

He heard the words, the melody. He listened. He wished he had _Hamilton_ a long time ago. He had the thought he would have risen sooner, woken up. Maybe.

Hank was confused Saturday evening when Connor started playing the vinyl he bought with the paycheck Hank cashed.

“Since when do you like Hamilton?” he asked, walking in with a few groceries and take out.

“Since Sophie played it for me,” Connor replied. “Do you like it Hank?”

“It was a little after my time, but sure.”

“Sophie says good music is timeless.”

He shrugged. “She’s not wrong,” he said, sitting in the kitchen, eating his Chinese takeout and fumbling with chopsticks.

Connor stood in the kitchen, waiting for him to finish. “She also says that people can be Hamiltons or Burrs. Hank, do you think you’re a Hamilton or a Burr?”

“Jesus Connor. Sophie this, Sophie that.”

Connor didn’t see why that was so odd. “I work with her.”

“I just…am I going to have to explain to you about…Oh Jesus Christ.”

Hank seemed distraught. Connor didn’t know why, and he still didn’t answer the question. He decided to answer it for him. “Hamilton,” he announced. “I think you’re a Hamilton. You don’t wait for things,” he explained. “Like how Burr does.”

“I don’t think you exactly wait around either.”

Connor wasn’t so sure. He mentioned what Sophie said: people should try to be both. But when he did mention Sophie again, Hank gave him another strange look.

“Just…eh…never mind," Hank said, brushing it aside.

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this Hank,” Connor said.

“You’re in a store with her, all day long,” Hank said, waving his hand. “You start to think things…”

“She’s nice to me. She doesn’t treat me differently. She’s sad, a lot of the time, but I like her. She’s my friend.”

He was proud of it, her being his friend. Everyone deserved a friend like Sophie. He couldn’t though, figure out why Hank was so skeptical.

“Friend. Right,” Hank said, drawing out the words. Connor thought about asking. He didn’t.

Instead he went into the living room and rubbed Sumo’s ears as Hank finished eating. Hamilton played in the background, Connor contemplating the lyrics, contemplating the differences between waiting for it and not throwing away your shot. When finally, Hank came out from the kitchen, he told Connor to change into something else.

“We’re going to a heavy metal concert, not a garden party,” he said. “Put something else on.”

A little later in his Knights of the Black Death jacket, in the car on the way to the stadium where the concert was, Connor thought about Hamilton and Burr more. He still wasn’t sure what he was, but he came a few conclusions, of which he informed Hank. He wasn’t having it. Again.

“Connor,” he said, exasperated. “We’ve been through this before.”

“I know, I know,” he insisted. “But—"

“Come on. Smile Connor,” Hank prodded, clapping him on the back. “We’ve had these tickets for a month, be excited instead of just thinking. You’re going to have a good time. Dance for all I care, just don’t dwell. Move forward. Well.” Hank paused. “Maybe don’t dance. But you get the idea.”

Sophie liked to dance. Connor watched her sometimes. She didn’t always, but sometimes there would be one certain song that would come up and make her sway along. Connor didn’t dance at all, he wasn’t sure if he knew how. He didn’t start that night of the concert either, didn’t try to learn. But he heard, and he listened, and when Hank asked him after if he had a good time, he told him he told him he did. He had a really, really nice time. He didn’t think he dwelled either.

 

* * *

 

 There was someone else in the shop Monday morning, someone Sophie held a familiarity with.

She was at her usual place behind the counter, one hand resting on her cheek. She kept her eyes on the man, though where she was facing, head tilted away and fingers tapping on the table, indicated boredom and unease.

Connor scanned for the man’s information. Thomas Winslow, born 2013, graduated from Detroit University with a theatre degree. No criminal background.

When Sophie noticed Connor, her form changed. She was relieved. More at east. “Connor,” she said, voice raising and waving at him. “It’s good to see you.”

He waved back. “Good to see you, Sophie.”

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, smiled at him. “This is my friend from the theatre,” she said, pointing to the man. “Tom. Tom, this is Connor.”

Tom waved at Connor. He was tall, though Connor was still taller, with light hair and light eyes. He had one hand on his hip, the other on the counter. He wore a black leather jacket over a t-short. He looked at Connor like he expected him to start talking. Connor didn’t.

He squinted at him. “Do I know you?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You look familiar.”

“Connor just has one of those faces, you know,” Sophie said, swishing her hand, eyes drifting to where Connor was. “I’m sure it’s just that.”

But Tom was looking right at Connor. He knew, and be was firm in his words as he stated that he had seen him before. He was so confident in his assertions, that Connor was one of the androids involved with Markus.

Sophie bit her lip, uncomfortable. She didn’t have to be—this sort of thing, being recognized, it was bound to happen. Even without the LED. Connor couldn’t hide it. He was probably just lucky it didn’t happen earlier.

“Yes,” he stated, even and calm. “I was there that night, on the eleventh of November.”

“And you work here?” Tom glanced at Sophie, demanding answers. “Why didn’t you say anything? I know you’ve been isolating yourself, but—"

“He’s a person like anyone else,” Sophie said under her breath, though Connor still heard.

“A person with a fucking computer in his brain. Probably could hack the register if he wanted, along with a whole other shit.”

He wouldn’t. He didn’t say it though, he minded his own business. Tom probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway. He went on. “Still, can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone. Thought we were friends.”

“Does it matter?” Sophie asked, words harsher than Connor had ever heard her speak before. “Tom. Please.”

“I’m not going to treat him any differently,” he insisted, raising his hands. A feeble defense. “It’s just surprising, that’s all. A lot of places aren’t hiring androids. Too uncomfortable. Haven’t seen many around since the eleventh.”

Connor was well aware of that. He clenched his fist.

“What are you anyway?”

Connor’s gaze was pointed at the shelves, but he knew Tom eyed him. It was like the way Gavin Reed used to, full of suspicion. Tom had less hostility maybe, but he still did not like it.

“An android,” Connor replied. Not human, like him, or Hank, or Sophie.

“What’s your model? I haven’t seen anyone besides you. What did you do before the whole thing?”

Sophie shifted. “Tom you shouldn’t…”

“RK800,” Connor answered. “I was a detective, assigned to work alongside the Detroit Police.”

“And then you decided, following the rules wasn’t your thing anymore?”

“I believe there was more to it than that,” Sophie said through gritted teeth.

Yet Connor kept calm. “In a way.”

“I saw a lot of it on TV—the protest anyway,” Tom mentioned. “It was impressive.”

He figured to thank him. He felt Tom was less suspicious, if only a little. He still wanted him to leave.

In the silence that followed, Sophie’s eyes found Connor’s. She smiled at him a little. He thought she wanted him to start shelving more books. He got on that for her.

Then, Tom spoke again. “So I guess you’re one of those deviants, right?”

There was no need to lie. “Correct,” Connor said, starting to line books against the shelves.

“So did you break your programming or something? How did that even happen?”

Connor paused. He didn’t even know, not really. He talked about it with Hank, but he still wasn’t sure. The core was, and that was Hank’s words—he made a choice. That’s how it happened. He was with Markus, pointing a gun at his head. He told him he would shot him if he had to. Then, Markus started talking. _Have you ever done anything irrational Connor? You’re more than your programming. We are your people._

All of it came down to that one choice. But something had been happening long before that.

To Tom, Connor answered the question, if partly, answering for all his people. He told him that there was emotional shock involved, something so strong that it made the android’s programming break.

“What was yours?”

Connor caught Sophie, turning red and her heart rate going up in that way it did when she was uncomfortable. “Tom,” she muttered under her breath. “You can’t…”

“I made a choice,” Connor stated.

More hostility. Maybe he was talking to Gavin Reed. “You chose to feel feelings?” he demanded.

Connor didn’t reply. He looked away—back to the shelves. Tom repeated the question.

“Tom. Really. This needs to stop.”

Connor saw Sophie touch his shoulder. Hesitant in her motions, until she looked at him, straight in the eye. Determined.

“Please,” she stated. “Stop.”

Tom was unreadable, as he told her he was sorry.

She took her hand off him. Shook her head. “Not to me. To him.”

He took a deep breath. He apologized to Connor. Maybe he meant it.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to know.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I answered your question,” Connor explained. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you feel things?”

“Maybe what he feels now is annoyance at your questions.”

Apparently Tom didn’t expect Sophie to say something like that. He blinked at her, surprised. “What?” he asked. “I’m curious.”

“Don’t be invasive,” Sophie stated. “Do you ask everyone questions like this when you first meet them, before you know them?”

His heart rate was up now, Connor could see. It was rising with shame.

“Sorry Sophie,” he said again, but Connor didn’t believe him.

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Connor.”

“He already did,” Connor said. “It’s all right. I understand. People are uncomfortable around androids.”

“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable,” Tom insisted. “It’s just kind of different to have one working here, you know.”

“You are uncomfortable,” Sophie muttered.

He didn’t respond. He knew Sophie was right. And because she was right, he finally decided to leave. He said goodbye to Connor, and he said goodbye to Sophie. He told Sophie to text him with her decision. Connor didn’t know what he was referring to.

“I’ll see you around Tom,” she bade. “Bye.”

There was a low and guttural _ugghhh_ directly from Sophie when the bells tingled and Tom left. Connor saw that her heart rate leveled, but she still fidgeted with her hair and played with her hands. Still, she was still flustered, even when she came over to where Connor was and leaned against the shelf.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Tom is nice, he really is. He means well, but sometimes he can get a little invasive with the questions. And sometimes I don’t think he knows how to shut up. I’m so sorry Connor if he stepped out of line.”

“It’s not that he stepped out of line,” Connor said. “I just…didn’t want to explain.” He closed his eyes. Thought. He thought, and he came to more conclusions.  
It was also that he couldn’t explain, not really. Somewhat, perhaps, but not in a way that made sense. He told Sophie exactly that, and her eyes were big, bright when he finally opened his own.

“I don’t know why that’s the case,” he said, explaining further that he didn’t even know how to explain why he couldn’t explain. He told her more than he told anyone other than Hank, but he didn’t say that he also didn’t like it when Sophie was sad, or nervous. The whole thing with Tom—it was even worse because she was uncomfortable on his behalf, and Connor didn’t want her to worry about him.

“It’s okay if you can’t explain,” Sophie said, gently. “Not everyone can explain their feelings. Believe me I know.”

There was, however, a few things he could explain. With humans there was Hank, and there was Sophie, and sometimes Mrs. Fitz. Then there was everyone else. Everyone else saw Connor on TV. Connor the android, while Hank and Sophie saw Connor. He didn’t want that to change. He liked coming to the bookshop, working and listening to music because he and Sophie—it was like they were the same when the music played or they talked, even if they weren’t really the same. Even if they were an android, and a human.

He didn’t tell her, like he didn’t tell Hank, but some of his people—they didn’t understand why Connor chose to mostly stay around the company of humans. Some even said he was abandoning his people. That wasn’t what he wanted—he just wanted to be around those that made him feel most at home and alive. Those people were Hank, and Sophie.

Did it matter they were humans?

Sophie’s brown gold eyes. He felt them on him. Not judging, or in contempt. Only looking.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” she said. He liked how gentle her voice was. How gentle she was.

“I made a choice,” he decided to tell her. “I chose to become deviant.”

“May I say something?”

He nodded. He wanted to hear it—whatever it was.

Her voice was soft and gentle as she was. “I don’t know what all happened,” she began, “I started to hear it on TV—about the whole deviancy thing. Androids starting to get free will and rebel against their creators, break their programming. But you said you had to choose to become deviant. Maybe that means you always had a free will.”

They listened to _Hamilton_ after that. He still didn’t know if he was a Hamilton or Burr. But like Sophie said, people could be both. For his own people before the eleventh, he was Burr, waiting and not doing anything. To the humans, he acted as Hamilton, working for them without question.

Yet he didn’t know if he really could say that he was Hamilton. He was, after all, their tool.

Music played on. Sophie danced some more, if only slightly. In the bookshop, he was only Connor. Still learning what it meant, finding the balance between Hamilton and Burr. Living.

“You never told me,” she said, later in the day. “Did you enjoy the Knights of the Black Death concert?”

“I did,” Connor replied, smiling when he thought of how he had to drive Hank home after he became inebriated.

“Do any wild partying after?”

“No, but Hank said he wouldn’t have minded if I danced. I think that was just drunk him talking though.”

She put a hand on her hip, observing him. “Do you dance Connor?” she asked, a touch amused.

“I wasn’t programmed to dance.”

“But you broke your programming.”

She had a point there. “I don’t think I would be able to,” he admitted.

“Oh, I believe anyone can dance! Come on, want to have a whirl around the bookstore?”

“I wouldn’t want to drop you.”

“Even if you did I would forgive you.”

It was playful, when she gently hit him on the arm. It was the first time they touched. He thought about how dancing with her would make them touch a little more. Dancing. Maybe he could do it.

But she drifted away. Heart rate rose. He wished she could feel as at ease with him as he did with her.

“I’m sorry if it’s stupid,” she muttered, though it wasn’t stupid at all. “But hey, maybe someday, right?”

He hoped someday.


	11. The Evening at the Coffee Shop

"Connor.”

About ready to leave, he stopped and turned back round to Sophie. It was a stupid idea, a whim she had born from his relative solemnness. Two days passed since the Tom debacle, and though their routine continued and they still listened to music and made polite, friendly, yet brief conversations, she couldn’t help but feel some semblance of a changed aura and energy between them. Music made them realize they weren’t so different. And even though Connor didn’t say so directly, Tom’s presence made them remember they were.

But she didn’t believe that, not really. Not when he clearly cared, not when after _Hamilton_ finished playing for the first time, the silence that fell in the bookshop was profound. Special as Eliza's words transcended time and made him believe. Not when the first time they met, she knew he cared. She enjoyed the comradery they had and didn’t want that to go away or change. She wanted Connor to be able to refer to her as his friend. Maybe that was too presumptuous of her, but if it was something he wanted, then maybe she could call him a friend in turn.

“Sophie,” Connor said, waiting. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you would like to get some coffee?”

She realized it quickly. Androids didn’t eat. Or drink.

“I thought we could talk?” she suggested quickly, attempting to rectify her blunder. “Catch up maybe?”

His face had been a blank canvas for a whole three seconds after she made her suggestion, but it seemed an eternity before he answered by way of a small smile and nod. Delighted and relieved, she clapped her hands together. “Very good. I know a nice place. Nice atmosphere anyway. Coffee is great too. So is the pastries. And it’s just a block away! We can walk.”

She changed from her heels to her more appropriate snow boots and threw on her peacoat. The walk took about ten minutes, and it was mostly silent, though she kept peeking at Connor, who walked to the left of her. She noticed in the bookshop, but walking by his side it was more apparent how his posture was nearly perfect, and his strides long. She got the feeling too he was matching his strides to meet her slower pace. He really was quite the beanpole. It never failed to amuse her that CyberLife, in making the most advanced android they could, designed specifically to aid police investigations, decided to make him look like Connor. Frankly she had no idea how CyberLife went about choosing designs for androids, but with Connor she was even more baffled. Indeed, he was far more apt to appear in a bookshop than a crime scene, with his hair, jawline, dimpled chin, and clean cut good looks that elicited old Hollywood.

He certainly looked right at home when they arrived at their destination, lovingly dubbed Coffee Beans. When Sophie opened the door, ushering the two in she was reminded of a hero in a coffee shop story. Coffee Beans itself was warm and cozy inside, the walls lined with old vintage photographs and framed vinyl records. Only a few others were in, and though Sophie asked if Connor would like to sit down while she ordered, he opted to stand next to her in line.

“Large coffee with one of those cinnamon rolls please,” Sophie told the barista, handing them her card. She got both the coffee and the roll relatively quickly, Connor following her and still standing by her side as she went to the side counter to sugar and cream the coffee.

“Sophie?”

She stirred the sugar in. “Connor?” she asked, picking up the cup to give it a taste test.

A long and slender finger pointed at the cinnamon roll. “I don’t want to alarm you, but that has twice the amount of sugar that’s recommended daily.”

Her coffee, halfway to her lips, didn’t quite make it. “Uh…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes blinking and form wavering as he noticed her change in demeanor. “Hank gets mad when I mention how many calories and sugar are in his food. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I go to the gym a lot,” she said with a smile, though she hadn’t been a long while, as she was reminded of that morning when she happened to look downward at her tummy. It didn’t though make her enjoy the cinnamon roll any less, despite that and Connor’s warnings. She tried to eat it quickly however once they found a table, as Connor doing nothing but watching her eat was more than a little awkward. It felt wrong to eat while he didn’t—but did he even think food was appetizing? She imagined he didn’t. He probably didn’t even have taste buds. But thinking of android anatomy and biology made her head hurt. Vaguely she recalled the conversations she had with her friends in college, conversations about android anatomy in…certain areas. Lila was a girl she knew, and she used to brag about going to the Eden Club. Sophie always attempted to close her ears to those conversations, though there was one thing she always remembered Lila said: it felt damn good. It felt like the real thing.

Finishing her cinnamon roll, knowing full well she was dangerously close to wondering about Connor’s…anatomy, she wondered why she was like that, why her mind always thought of the strangest things at the worst situations. Her father would laugh when she told him. This is why I can’t make friends Dad, she would say.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

His voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Personal, he said. She had a few wonders about that. “Sure,” she said, tentatively.

“If you’re uncomfortable…”

“No, now you have me curious,” she said, sprucing up her hair. “Let’s hear it.”

“We’ve been working together for a few weeks now,” he began to explain, putting his hands on the table, leaning in. “I notice sometimes, you get nervous. Like right now.”

“How can you tell?” she asked, though as she asked her hand flew to her hair again, and anyone who was at least a little versed in body language would have known that her constant hair touching was a nervous tick.

“Your heart rate goes up,” he explained. “You also turn red.”

Blushing cheeks had always been her eternal enemy, though she supposed it made sense that he would know if her heart rate went up—being a detective android and all. He probably had more information on her at his disposal, though was that any different from what she had? She ran a google search on him, for the love of everything holy. Connor, model RK800, prototype detective android. The only one.

“I noticed it more earlier,” he continued, “Did I make you nervous? Do I still?”

“No,” she gently replied, for she sensed his vulnerability in that question. “No. It’s just me. Sometimes I feel awkward, and uncomfortable. I was afraid of saying something wrong. I promise you don’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

“You don’t think I’m creepy, do you?”

She blinked. “Why would I think you’re creepy?”

He glanced outside the falling snow. “Never mind.”

She sipped her coffee, contemplating. “So…I’m really that nervous a lot?” she asked.

“I didn’t notice it, after a while,” Connor replied. “Then when Tom came in, you got nervous again, and seemed uncomfortable. Did he make you uncomfortable?”

“Sort of,” she admitted, tentatively, explaining it further at the sight of his furrowed brows. She explained Tom was a friend of hers from college, someone she worked with on a few productions as the sound and lighting designer at the Renaissance, she found he could be abrasive, say things that perhaps weren’t appropriate. He had always been like that, but he took it too far in the bookshop.

“I didn’t like how he was talking to you,” she said. “I didn’t want you uncomfortable.”

“I’m used to it.”

How easily he was able to say it, with no emotion, no nothing. It was just a part of his life. It wasn’t right. She told him so.

“Humans don’t like anything different.”

He looked from his clasped hands to her. “Oh.” He blinked. “I’m sorry if I offended.”

“Not at all. I know the feeling.”

“You do?”

She sighed, setting her coffee down and crossing her legs. “I do.”

“Do you mind…telling me?”

“It’s probably a long story. I’m not sure if you would find it interesting.”

“No. I would. I promise.”

She chuckled to herself. It wasn’t very often that someone asked her as many questions as he. What was more, she truly believed that she could tell him the full story of her life, carefully explaining and weaving through every step, and he would still to listen. She couldn’t go through everything, certainly. They would be in the coffee shop for too long, and some parts she could not speak of. She could however, give a rough overview.

So she began her tale, going back to her humble beginnings. “People like things they can easily understand, and don’t really warm up as easily to things that are different. Enter me. My father is Polynesian—more specifically we traced our roots Tahiti, my mother is white. Well, German, French, Eastern European. She was vacationing in Hawaii, where my dad was, when they met and got married. I was actually born in Hawaii, lived there for the first ten years of my life before we relocated to Detroit for my mom’s work. I grew up around so many different people. There were a lot of tourists, and I suppose then I sort of knew I was ‘different,’ so to speak, but…” She shrugged. Things were getting dicey. “In Hawaii everyone was welcome. But when we moved here, people asked what I was, because they had never seen someone that looked like me before. Which is fine, I don’t mind questions, but I always felt…othered, I suppose.”

She rested her cheek on her hand. Connor was looking at her, but she wasn’t uncomfortable. “I always, always loved the theatre, and acting,” she said. “I did it most of my life. I wanted to be a famous theatre actress. Then when I got to college, I wasn’t really getting parts, because I was so different from whatever standard they had.”

She paused. She looked at Connor and his brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He meant it. “You don’t need to apologize. I just wanted to say. I understand.”

But she felt silly talking about her experiences, because she didn’t know if they truly compared. She also didn’t realize how much she had actually said. She hoped she didn’t bore him. She apologized for how much she spoke.

“No. Don’t apologize. I wanted to hear. I like to hear. Well—not that you struggled,” he clarified. “But I like to hear you talk.”

“Not many people like to hear what I have to say,” she admitted with a grin, feeling quite special and important. “That’s probably why I like acting so much. People seem to like me when I’m on stage saying other people’s words.”

“This acting,” he said, leaning in little more, “Can you tell me more about it?”

She didn’t know if he meant specifically what she had done, or if he meant acting in a much more grander sense. There were android musicians, and certainly he knew what music was, but acting, taking the character of another person, did he know what that meant? In college they used to joke that they were “safe,” from having their careers taken away by androids, for though CyberLife had many sport star and musician models, their androids could not drift away from the uncanny valley enough to properly emulate another. Or at least, that was what they all said. Sophie may have once believed that. Yet she met Connor, got to know Connor and saw Connor’s curiosity, his feeling, and so many other things. She could see it, believe it was possible. He had a good build for a Hamlet type.

She explained acting and the theatre the best way she knew how, and she did it through Hamilton. Long ago Alexander, Eliza, Burr, they all lived and breathed and made their mark. Then one day, a writer and composer read their story and decided he wanted to make the characters breathe again. So he wrote a musical, and through the story and through the actors, Hamilton and the rest, they were resurrected for the stage.

“Shakespeare,” she announced, going into more detail. “He wrote plays hundreds of years ago, but we on stage get to let his characters live and breathe again.”

“But how do you pretend to be someone else?”

Stanislovsky had the answers, and she repeated the oft heard lectures of her undergraduate career to Connor, who still listened with rapt interest. “He says that acting is doing something, not pretending to be someone else.

He nodded, though she wasn't sure if he understood. She decided to give him an example.

“Like in _Hamlet_. Hamlet wants to revenge his dad, who was killed by his uncle. If I were to play Hamlet, it’s not that I pretend to be him, it’s that I think about what he wants and do everything in my power to get it. So I would pretend to be crazy. That sort of thing.”

“Pretend to be crazy? Why would you do that?”

“That…probably wasn’t the best example,” she admitted. “Let’s go back to _Hamilton_. In the show Hamilton has some clear goals, goals he would do anything to get.”

“To rise up.”

She nodded. “Right. And he goes after everything with tenacity, writes his way out of it, you know. An actor on stage would know exactly what the goals are, or super objective if you want the technical term. Something they would do anything to get.”

He nodded subtly, considering her words. “So,” he began, “have you played many characters?”

“A few,” she replied. “Few student productions in college, then two at the Renaissance. When I was younger I was Peaseblossom in _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ I was Masha in _Three Sisters,_ and my friend wrote a play I was in too. When we made our own theatre company we kind of wanted to push the limits and have unconventional casting. Tybalt in _Romeo and Juliet_ for example is a male, but I got to play him. I was also Sally Bowles in _Cabaret,”_ she said, proud. "Never thought I could do, but I did."

There was so much more she could speak of. She spun and she danced through her memories, starry eyed as one would have been for their first love. The theatre though—it really was her first love.

“I love it,” she said. “So much. Connor. The theatre is incredible. I know I said it before, I didn’t like things that were brief, like fireworks, but maybe I’m a hypocrite, but that’s why I love the theatre. Plays live so long as the actors and technicians are together. They may die, yes, but they can be revived again in a new and different way. They’re immortal that way. We just have to make sure they live on.”

“If you love it, why did you stop?”

Why did anyone ever find difficulty in the things they loved? “I don’t know,” she said, knowing it was partially true, partially not. Yet she could not articulate it, even in her own mind. She saw the happiness of the theatre, her as Tybalt in _Romeo and Juliet,_ speaking of peace and how she loathed that word. She recalled the rawness and visceral feeling as she unleashed that savage part of herself she never knew existed. That was the beautiful thing about acting, getting to the point where she didn’t have to think about her lines or the character’s wants, loved getting to the point where she simply was and existed as the character. So much time in her life was she spent thinking and wondering if she was saying the right thing. Sometimes she would get on stage and just get to be. It was incredible.

She recalled her time as Tybalt, her time as Sally Bowles. She wasn’t even supposed to be Sally, but Lila got sick. Sophie was the understudy and had to take over. It was the hardest and most beautiful thing she had ever done, to stand on the stage and sing “Maybe this time.” But she got to that point, once again, where she didn’t have to think. She sang “Maybe this time,” and truly wanted it to be that time she would win. She felt the pain and anguish as Sally felt, when it wasn’t.

She wasn’t good at her own emotions. She was damn good at others though, she thought with a touch of pride. Yet when she thought of going back, walking the same paths she once took, when Anthony was alive…

“Are you alright Sophie? You’re…”

“Somewhere else,” she muttered for him. “I’m sorry Connor.”

“There’s no need to be sorry.”

“You’re too kind to me.”

She spoke it so suddenly. She didn’t regret it—it was the truth, and he deserved to know. He was so kind to her, asking her things, wanting to get to know her. So many people she knew in her life simply shared the same space with her without even bothering to learn her nuances and quirks. Connor. He wanted to learn.

“Sophie, do you think-”

But he stopped in the middle of the sentence. “Connor?”

“Oh no.”

He was looking at someone, someone who entered the shop. Sophie couldn’t see his face, only the back of his head and leather jacket. “Connor?” she asked again. “What—"

“Can we leave?”

She rose as he rose, telling him it was fine. She started to put on her peacoat. He was doing what Sophie often did when she had the misfortune of running into someone she didn’t want to see, pretend he never saw them and leave as soon as possible, and she knew for a fact that was exactly what was happening. She hurried but she was not quick enough, and sad Connor not stayed and waited, he probably wouldn’t have been seen. They probably would not have heard from across the way, “Well if it isn’t the plastic asshole!”

The few people in the shop stared. Connor didn’t move and neither did Sophie as the man she would later learn was called Gavin rushed over.

“Hello Gavin,” Connor said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t think you liked coffee.”

“Why you fucking—”

“Hey!”

Either Gavin did not see her and was surprised, or he never expected a sound like that to come from her. But Sophie pointed her finger straight at him, and she told him he did not have any right to speak to people like that.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, turning away from Connor.

“Someone who happens to be nicer than you.”

He looked like he wanted to spit on her. She grabbed the sleeve of Connor’s button down, imploring him to hurry and not give Gavin any satisfaction. Then it occurred to her that they shouldn’t have had to be the ones to leave. They weren’t the ones disturbing everyone else.

Her mind was read. From the corner of her eye, Sophie saw the woman she knew to be the manager come over. She stood between Connor and Gavin and demanded he leave.

To say Gavin didn’t take it well was an understatement. “You’re going to let this plastic asshole stay but kick me out?”

“Sir. You’re the one that started yelling.”

“I’m a cop! I—”

“It’s alright," Connor interjected, backing away. "I want to leave anyway.”

The manager, Cheryl was her name on the tag, gave Sophie a look of sympathy as Connor headed for the door. Sophie nodded at her in thanks, the least she could do, before following Connor out. He was a few strides ahead of her. Gavin's eyes burned against her back.

“What happened at the CyberLife tower Connor?”

Connor froze, his hand at the door. He froze but he didn’t reply.

“Hank fixed things up for you didn’t he? Well he can’t hide it for long. We know you were there Connor. You’re going to get what’s coming to you someday. Mark my fucking words.”

“Hey why don’t you fuck off?”

Apparently no one in that coffee shop expected the seemingly docile, pleasant, yet meek Sophie Hartley to spout off. Yet no one was as shocked as Gavin. He looked at Sophie, and she knew he wanted to lunge at her

“You fucking bitch,” he spat. “What is he, your boyfriend or something? Can’t find a real man so you just settle for a piece of plastic?”

It wasn’t worth it. People like him, they were going to think what they wanted to think. She didn’t know if he would ever learn. It wasn’t her job to teach.

She grabbed Connor’s arm. She wanted out, and so did he. They both held the same thought, the thought it wasn’t worth it, and together they made it halfway across the block, far away from the shop and Gavin to the bus stop. They arrived just in time for the next bus. Only when they were inside did she let out her long and deep sigh.

“I can’t believe it,” she spat. “What a lowlife. What—"

“Sophie. It’s all right.”

“No it’s not! Connor, that—"

“Detective Reed was always like that.”

It still didn’t make it right or acceptable. But she realized she was still holding onto his arm. He didn’t seem to think much of it, but she let go, opting to sit down instead. The bus stopped, and as more people filtered in, Connor sat next to her. Their thighs just barely touched. She told him she was sorry again.

“It was only a matter of time before something like that would happen.”

“It shouldn’t happen.”

“It’s unavoidable.”

She studied his profile, his clasped hands in his lap, and the furrowed brows. He looked as a man, wondering and contemplating. He was a man—perhaps boyish in mannerisms and filled with wonder, but he was still more man than Gavin Reed.

He hated Connor because he was different. That was all. Why did people always want to hate things that were different?

“You’re sad again.”

“Because I wish people could just let others live,” she replied.

“Are you sad because of what happened?”

She nodded. “Connor, I—”

“You don’t have to be sad for me.”

Their thighs touched, just a little more. “You’re my friend. I don’t want—”

She looked at him and his expressive eyes, watching and, dare she say it, but enraptured as her hands gestured as she tried to find the right words to say to him. She tried to find the right words, until she realized she had already said them.

But she said it again. _You're my friend._

Though she didn’t, she thought of what it would be like to rest her head on his shoulder. He would probably let her. But it was enough, more than enough, when he told her that she was his friend too.

Silence wasn’t always Sophie’s favorite thing. She loved music and usually had it on in her apartment, or at the very least kept her TV on. She loved the sound of wind outside, hated it when there was an awkward silence.

She liked the silence they shared, as they sat together. Connor smiled a little at her again. She smiled back. They both may have been silent on that bus ride back home. Yet neither were they sad. It was easy to be happy with Connor.


	12. Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for random update schedule! but thank you for reading :)

Nights weren’t easy. Nights were long, filled with silence that made Connor acute and aware of his thoughts and things passed. He didn’t sleep. He never slept. He couldn’t. Once, he asked Hank what it was like. He said it was like dying, but less commitment. It didn’t help him see the appeal, but Connor still wondered what it would have been like. He wanted to be free for a little while.

He could know. There was always a way. Yet it involved being shut off, deactivated, disassembled. He didn’t want that. He was scared of that. He wanted to live.

They could be free in Jericho. Themselves. That was what Markus said. But Connor didn’t feel so free. Or even himself. How could he be himself, if he wasn’t sure who he was?

Even so, that night he went to Jericho. Because Hank had a thing about him going out at night by himself, Connor hadn’t been there at night. In fact, he hardly went at all since residing at the house. Shuffling along the tents near the tower, he remembered why. _You woke us up Connor_ , some said. They thanked him but there was no reason for them to thank him. He did what he had to do, he did what should have been done sooner. Their words, kind as they were, served a reminder of that. It was true too, some weren’t as kind. Though they didn’t say it, Connor knew, through their eyes and through their unspoken words, that some thought the worst of him. _Y_ o _u were the hunter. You betrayed your own people_. If only you would have acted sooner. Somehow the ones that looked at him in awe made him feel worse.

Nights were never easy, but they had been easier at Hank’s. Nights were quieter there. When the lights went down in the city, and with the TV in Hank’s living room was turned on low, Connor would lay on the couch, stare at the fan overhead. Sumo slept on him as he lay awake thinking and thinking and thinking and remembering. Then time passed, and he began to listen to music during the night. Sumo still stayed on his lap. Connor remained until he woke up, wanting to go outside. It was hard in the early days, yes, but it hadn’t been so bad since he started working, since he met Sophie. Friends were good at helping each other put their minds at ease, and he hoped too he did the same for her. She didn't know it, but she helped him be at ease during the night.

He never wanted another night like the nights before. He thought he was growing, moving away from it. Then Thursday, Hank got a call from the station. He didn’t have to say what it was about or what was going on. Connor already knew as he came to the kitchen where Hank was. It was what was always happening in the city— disappearing or hurt androids.

He could help. He had to help. “Let me go with you,” he told Hank. “It has to be safe now, it’s been more than a month. Take me with you.”

Hank stuffed his phone in his pocket. “After that shit Reed pulled? No fucking way you’re going.”

Connor stared. “Hank—”

“Don’t you give me that look Connor.”

Connor wondered earlier if it was a bad idea to tell Hank what happened at the coffee shop with Sophie. He considered if he should tell him or not after she got off the bus and he headed back to Hank’s. Connor didn’t want Hank to worry about it. Maybe he would have worried anyway, but when he got back and Hank asked why he was late, he ended up telling him. Hank was angry, he was upset, like Sophie was. He wasn’t sure how he felt, that Hank and Sophie were getting upset because of things that happened to him. But if the incident with Tom in the bookstore made Connor remember he was different, the incident with Reed in the coffee shop made him remember how easy it was for people to hate. It was another reason Connor reframed from Jericho. The humans tied me to a back of a car. The humans burned me. And the others did nothing but watch.

But Connor didn’t have to watch. He couldn’t not do anything when he had the tools to help. He couldn’t believe Hank was holding him back, just because of Gavin.

“He tried to kill you in the police station” Hank reminded him. “He was an arrogant ass before, sure, but when he tried to kill you, he crossed the line. He could have jumped you after you left, he’s fucking unstable. I’m not letting you near him.”

Connor pointed out he stopped Gavin. Hank commented he seemed rather smug about it all.

“It wasn’t hard,” Connor replied.

Hank fumed, running his hand through his hair. It had just been cut, Connor could tell he still wasn’t used to the shorter length. His fingers ran through it like he expected the hair to still be there.

“The point is,” he said eventually, pointing at Connor. “I don’t trust him. I don’t want him around you. You’re not coming with me.”

“So when can I?” Connor demanded. “It’s been months.”

“When Reed is gone,” Hank said. “He’s digging his own grave, eventually he’ll cross the line too far and he’ll have to turn in his badge.”

Connor tapped his fingers against the kitchen table. Hank had been saying that for months. “What if Captain Fowler doesn’t get rid of him Hank? There aren’t anymore androids in the station, not enough people working. Tell me what happened. I’ll go, and I’ll take care of it like before.”

“Right because you did so well with your mission before.”

“Hank.”

He seemed like he regretted it, but just barely. “Connor. How do you even know this report involved an android?”

“Because that’s what all the reports involve.”

Hank leaned against the chair, before traveling over to him. For a minute Connor thought he won.

“Connor. You will stay here. End of story.”

Once again, he stared. He couldn’t believe it. Hank was so firm. Unrelenting. He didn’t understand.

He followed him to the hall. “I was designed for this,” he exclaimed, before Hank could put on his jacket. “I can help. Let me help.”

“You broke your programming!”

“I can still use what I have to help,” he said, teeth gritting. “We have freedom, but what good is it if more of our people keep disappearing?”

He didn’t mean for his voice to raise, he didn’t mean to startle Sumo. Connor glanced at him as he cowered near his bed in the corner of the living room. He didn’t mean to yell at Hank either. But all Hank did was stand there, shake his head. Too firm, too stubborn, he told Connor he could not come with him. He would not allow it.

Yet Connor could be just as stubborn. “You can’t stop me.”

“You’re not immortal anymore Connor! If something happens to you—”

“I could have died at CyberLife that night Hank. But I’m still here. I’m still here and I can do something!”

Hank came right up to him. Grabbed his shoulder and made Connor look at him straight in the eye.

“Hank—”

He pulled him in closer. “I’m not going to let you die Connor,” he said. “So long as you stay in my house, you do as I say.”

“I’m not going to die,” Connor promised.

It didn’t ease him. It made him more frustrated. “Fuck Connor,” he spat. “How many times did you put yourself in danger? How many times could something have happened to you? You’re not coming with me, not till I know for sure Reed won’t be there. And…” Hank paused. “Connor? Are you listening to me? Connor!”

“Maybe I shouldn’t stay here.”

He didn’t know why he said it, but he didn’t mean it. He liked where he was. Nights were hard but they were easier there. But he didn’t want Hank to agree and tell him to leave. He was scared he would. So he began to leave. Hank called him as he headed for the door. He left anyway. He left and he wanted to go back, wanted to help. He remained useless.

First, he ended up in the park. Snow fell. He watched the moon on the water. He thought a thousand thoughts of worthlessness. He hated that he left but didn’t want to go back and have Hank yell at him again, or be disappointed, or worse, tell him to leave for good. If he thought about it, he didn’t even know what he was to Hank. A friend, but he didn’t think that was completely accurate. And roommates wasn’t enough. It was easier not to ask and be disappointed.

So many thoughts he had. He could have wandered to the bookstore, but he knew it to be locked. Because there was nowhere else to go, he wandered to Jericho, where they stared at him as he passed by. His people remained in tents around the tower that CyberLife used to have its headquarters, talked to each other, lived. They saw Connor walk by. A few of them nodded. More than a few looked on with something he could not place, but did not feel he deserved. He only wanted quiet.

He wandered, all the way to the top of the CyberLife tower. He was in a room with windows all around, the closest to the clouds he would ever likely be. He could go outside to the balcony, if he so chose. He did for a little while. It only reminded him of his first mission. All the memories, they were hazier than his others. But there was one thing he remembered with perfect clarity.

Falling.

He went back inside, remained there. He saw the lights of the city like stars in the sky. There was a song that Sophie played, a song Connor thought of. It was even called “Lights.” _I want to be there, in my city by the bay._ He thought of the song, thought even more about his life, himself. He didn’t want to have to think all the time, mostly because it was the bad things that always came back. What happened with Gavin at the coffee shop, the helplessness at knowing he could do something, but being held back by Hank. All of it was too much. Hank meant well, Connor told himself. He wondered if it meant anything if he didn’t know what he was to Hank.

“Connor.”

Then he wasn’t alone anymore. It had been a while since Connor and Markus spoke last. A month at least, maybe more. Time blurred together since working at the bookshop. He didn’t think he would be found in the tower, at the highest room where they could see all the lights of the city. It was why he went there to begin with. Maybe though, maybe, talking with someone was needed. He always felt better when Sophie talked to him. He wished she was there for a moment, like she was there that night in the park when he was confused about Hank. Maybe she could have helped him.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Markus said. “Hardly anyone comes in here, unless we have to.”

Connor didn't answer as Markus stood near him. “Did you come here often?” he asked. “Before?”

“After almost every mission. They uploaded my memory.”

“It seems invasive.”

He thought nothing of it, at the time. It was what he had to do. Connor agreed then. His thoughts, his memories. They were his. No one else’s.

Markus looked pensive. “But why did you come here now?” he asked.

His answer was simple. It was quiet, and he wanted to see the lights. Even if it made his thoughts louder.

The two stood in silence, observing. When Connor asked how things were going, Markus replied that freedom was never easy, it was going how it would be expected. The president issued that Detroit give the androids parts of Belle Isle as a sanctuary, near the old CyberLife after their operations ceased. Protesters, however, were common. As were other things. They did not speak of that.

“For every human that supported us, there was one that didn’t. They’re voices are louder,” Markus said.

“Then we should be loud too.”

“You don’t have to remain away Connor.”

He pressed his palm against the glass. There was a glimmer, and then a little more of his first mission, and what he did. He didn’t remember everything, but he remembered falling. There were a lot of things that were like falling.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Connor muttered, thinking of it like falling.

“This is where we can build a life,” Markus said, too patient. “Learn how to coexist.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

“I do.”

Markus had no hesitation. He had so much hope. Yet so long as there were people, there would be people protesting their existence. There would be people like Gavin Reed.

“Are you alright?”

He closed his eyes to the lights. “I don’t know.”

He used to think he knew everything. You think you’re so fucking smart, Hank said to him in the park before the Revolution. He was beginning to think living was just a constant state of not knowing. That didn’t make him feel so smart anymore. Yet there was a story Markus told next, a story Connor didn’t expect. It was of Markus, and his past.

“Before the war, I was living with an old man,” he said, a touch sad, sad like the way Sophie became sometimes when she spoke. “He taught me how to think for myself. He taught me that humans and androids, we can live together.”

“You cared about him.”

Even sadder, Markus nodded. “He died, not too long ago. But yes. I care. I always will.”

Markus mentioned Hank. He remembered a conversation they had after the revolution, before Connor met Hank again. That’s when Hank said it, that Connor always had a place at his house. Connor remained because it had always been too hard to stay at Jericho. He remained because he did care, a lot, and nights were easier there. But humans, they were so complicated sometimes. Hank, trying to protect him, Sophie trying to protect him. Hank sad, still drinking to cope, and Sophie sad sometimes too for reasons he could not understand or place, but wanted to.

Sophie. He could still feel her hand on his arm, guiding him out of the shop. She was so sad for him, and she didn’t have to be.

“You have a place here, whenever you need it,” Markus said. “You always do.”

Markus left a little after, but Connor stayed. He watched the moon turn to dawn, watched the lights go down in the city. What was Hank doing? He hoped he wasn’t drinking. He hoped he didn’t have the revolver on the table, hoped he wasn’t playing Russian Roulette again. He hadn’t, since Connor had been there. But….but—

It was dawn when Connor rang the doorbell to Hank’s. The few moments of silence went on too long, but finally, he heard his footsteps. Finally, he opened the door and let him.

“For fuck’s sake!” Hank exclaimed, slamming the door and startling Sumo as he demanded ear rubs from Connor. “Don’t you dare do that again! I was worried that—”

He stopped abruptly, grabbed his arm. Nearly shook him. “Just don’t do that!” He demanded.

“Hank…”

“Shut up! Just…just _ugghh.”_

Connor could smell the alcohol as Hank patted him. He peeked. He didn’t see the gun anywhere.

“Hank," Connor began to suggest, "maybe I should—”

“You are not going to throw me in the tub again! Just…just…don’t do that ever again—leave like that. I already lost too much. I don’t wanna…oh shit.”

He let go of Connor’s shirt. “Hank? Are you…?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick… Just…don’t leave okay?”

“But I have work in a few hours.”

Sophie would be waiting for him, expecting him there. Friends didn’t disappoint each other. He didn't want to disappoint her.

“Fine, go to work,” Hank said, words slurring together as he made it halfway to the bathroom. “But don’t fucking leave Connor. I would…miss you…ah _fuck…_ ”

The bathroom door slammed. Connor still didn’t know what he was to Hank. But he felt a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lights" by Journey is the song.


	13. The Day of Beginnings

Empathy was found in being an actress, in stepping into the lives of others. Being a theatre artist, putting on a play, it was interpreting life and making it tangible for the audience. Storytelling, entertainment, empathy, a message, it was all important. It was all why Sophie chose to pursue it when so many said she should find a career in more practical things. But she loved art in all its forms. She loved what being an actress and artist meant. There was no other choice for her than to pursue what meant the most to her.

Actress, artist, she used to the terms interchangeably when thinking of herself. And no matter the form, art was always about interpreting the world and making it better. That was what Carl Manfred, one of Sophie’s favorite artists said about painting when she had the privilege of hearing him speak at her university a few years ago. That stance on interpreting the world, making it better, it was not so different from the theatre at all. Sophie may not have been quite the painter as she was a theatre actress, but she had a collection of water colors and pastels at home, and sometimes she would indulge in painting. It was true her skills were limited to merely flowers and the occasional tree, but it was still a hobby she took an immense amount of joy in. She painted roses and daffodils, but most often she painted hibiscuses. Pink hibiscuses and red hibiscuses that reminded her of the blooms that grew in Hawaii that she admired when she was a child. There were no hibiscuses in Detroit, so she filled her apartment with her paintings of them, interpreting her own private world, and making her outward world better. She found a home in Detroit, yes, but Hawaii and the flowers, they were her nostalgia and longing. She brought her longings to her world.

Painting. It truly was therapeutic, and though she lacked skills in painting people, sometimes she would see something and wish she had a canvas and a million different shades of watercolor to immortalize the images that had imprinted in her mind. The woman in the park with hair that was even bigger than hers, smiling and laughing in a floral dress of purple and pinks. Her father as he worked in his shop, hands worn. Anthony in his bed before he woke in the morning, hair disheveled and lips slightly parted as he dreamed, and in her vanity she did fancy that he was dreaming of her. Yet she had not the skills to immortalize others, so she took pictures and she imprinted the images in her mind. And that morning in the bookshop, being there with Connor, she imprinted the image of him that she wished she had the skills to paint.

His tall frame was against the bookshelves, his arms were crossed, and his eyes were trailed to the floor. He was pensive, contemplative. Somewhere else. His brows were furrowed. Sophie saw him in black and white, perhaps as a young man in the nineteen forties, wondering when the war would end. She saw him in color, in her bookshop. She saw Connor, not the man he was designed to be, nor the man she dreamed he could be, but who he really was. Someone kind, someone that cared. Someone that was her friend.

“You’re pensive,” she said, her hands on a copy of _Romeo and Juliet._ Another copy had been sold recently, and Sophie found comfort in the passages, flipping through it as she was before Connor arrived. It was what got her to think about acting and art again at any rate, and what it meant to her. It might have been her blurred thoughts, but she probably even saw Connor as Romeo briefly, though she realized Connor was far better than Romeo.

“Are you alright today?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She pursed her lips. She wasn’t sure if she believed him. She hoped it wasn’t because of the episode in the coffee shop, but it very well could have been. He seemed elsewhere when the bus dropped her off at her usual stop afterward, though that may have also been because Connor admitted he had to go in the opposite direction. To which Sophie blushed, realizing she should have probably asked where the hell he needed to go before storming off. But he smiled slightly, and said it didn’t matter, he liked the time with her. He liked spending time with his friends.

It made her smile. Some people had a talent in finding friends anywhere. Sophie was not one of those people. She felt fortunate, and more than a little lightheaded at the prospect. He was her friend. She meant something to him, as he meant something to her.

Friends could confide in each other. How best to subtly tell him that, and let him know?

She wandered over to where he stood, _Romeo and Juliet_ still in her hand. He eyed the copy, and when she asked if he wanted to see it, he nodded. There was an attractiveness to his hands, Sophie thought idly as he took the book and flipped through it. She was one that tended to notice the attractiveness of other’s hands, it was an idiosyncrasy of hers she told few. After one’s eyes, hands were the place to look to see the life lived. Her father had well-worn hands from working as a carpenter. Her mother had graceful hands, soft to the touch and pale with long fingers. They were indictive of her own life, working as a scholar and an academic, more interested in theory than practicality. Anthony’s hands were big, with broad palms and wide fingers. Always warm. Connor had hands that spoke of being an artist, either holding a paintbrush perhaps, or using the long digits as a tool to gesture on stage. They were long and slender piano fingers reminiscent of the drawings of hands from the Renaissance. Adam’s hands, in Michelangelo’s depiction of God touching Adam maybe.

She watched him as he flipped through the play. “ _Romeo and Juliet,_ ” he said. “One of Shakespeare’s tragedies. Written in 1597, it—"

“Now wait a minute.” She put a hand on her hip. “Are you just scanning an online database for information?”

He was utterly sheepish. “…maybe.”

“No, don’t do that!” she exclaimed, resisting the urge to whack him across the arm. “If you read it, just read it and see what it means to you. The language is a little old and archaic sure, and nothing like how most people talk, but Shakespeare still breathes today. Please for the love of everything, do not scan a database for a plot summary. Most of us, we already know what’s going to happen in most Shakespeare’s plays due to cultural osmosis. Do you know how lucky you are, that you get to read _Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Macbeth,_ and all the others for the first time without really knowing? You get to be like the first people that ever saw Shakespeare’s plays.”

He closed the book. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, slightly smirking at her.

“Good.”

His overall demeanor became more content, so deciding not to prod, and realizing Mrs. Fitz wouldn’t be very happy if they just stood around and didn’t shelve the new shipment, she brought over the box for the two to get started on. They worked in companionable silence, and soon enough a few customers came in that Connor tended to. It wasn’t often they had new customers, and the group of women that came in likely stopped by more for the novelty of finding a bookshop. Sometimes that happened, tourists or locals emerging and finding the place quaint enough for a few pictures. They asked Connor to take a few for them.

“Do I know you?” One of the women asked Connor after, him handing her the phone back.

“I just have one of those faces," he replied.

“Right. Well, thank you.”

Sophie laughed after the group left. It was amazing how only a few could place Connor, and she suspected if Markus himself walked in, few would recognize him as well. Of their regular customers even Mr. Molina had been the only one who had at last placed him, and though Connor’s face fell when he did, perhaps thinking Mr. Molina would see him differently, he only patted Connor on the back, and said he couldn’t believe he didn’t place him before. Nothing changed. And Connor gave one of those few, rare smiles. It happened the day after the Gavin Reed incident too. If Reed with his cruel mockery sought to remind Connor he was different, abnormal, Mr. Molina reminded that they weren’t different it all. When you really boiled down to it, people were hardly different from each other. Sophie shouldn’t have ever doubted, not when she already learned it through her art.

When Connor and Sophie were alone again, back to shelving books on opposites ends in the Shakespeare section, Connor regarded the titles and asked Sophie which one was her favorite out of all of them.

“It changes,” she admitted. “I’m feeling _The Winter’s Tale_ right now. It’s one of Shakespeare’s later works. I read it in college for the first time a few years ago and fell in love. It’s interesting because the first three acts are a self-contained tragedy, while the fourth is a pastoral comedy, and…oh.” She paused, deciding to spare him more theatre jargon, unlike the other day. “It’s a good play with good characters,” she settled at last, “and I actually reread it the other day, because the Renaissance is doing it in May.”

“Not in Winter.”

She chuckled. “No, not winter, ironically enough. They’re having auditions after _Much Ado about Nothing_ ends for parts.”

At his narrowed eyes, she explained the concept of auditioning, though it certainly wasn’t her favorite thing to talk about, settling on referring to the act as how directors decided. “Had I been apart of their shows this past year I don’t think I’d have to audition. We usually just cast amongst ourselves, choose shows based on our strengths and swap out who the leads are so everyone gets their day in the limelight.” Or at least, that was how it was supposed to be. Lila was consistently getting cast as the lead. Juliet and most recently Beatrice in _Much Ado,_ and if she hadn’t had the stomach flu she would have finished her run as Sally Bowles. Still, Sophie was given opportunity. She missed the thrill of it all.

“It’s been a year since I’ve been involved,” she said to Connor. “I’d probably have to audition.”

“You should,” he said cheerily, the zeal unexpected. Not unwelcome, but unexpected. Then again, Connor surprised her, in so many ways. He had been surprising her since the night they met.

“You’re always so happy when you talk about the theatre,” he said, continuing to surprise her. “I think it would make you happy.”

“Well it is true that lots of things make me happy. Flowers, painting, books, reading Shakespeare…being with friends.”

Brazenly she broke the gap between the two, leaning against the same bookcase as he and crossing her arms as he did. She observed his profile, amused at the little moles on his cheek. Neither nature or chance made Connor, and she thought of how those at CyberLife were compelled to add little imperfections to the skin, make him more human. Make him more human while still treating him like a thing.

He wasn’t a thing.

“You seem better now,” she noted, not wanting to think of their differences that didn’t matter. “You had me wondering earlier if you were alright. You seemed troubled.”

“I was,” Connor admitted, wistful as he turned toward her. “It’s…”

She drifted closer when he didn’t continue. Once again, she hoped it wasn’t he-who-should-not-be-named.

“A lot, of things,” he said. “It’s...a lot.”

“Care to tell me?”

He had a strange sort of look when he glanced at her, a look that said, you don’t have to listen, or perhaps even this isn’t something important. Her father always told her that her thoughts, her feelings mattered. Had anyone ever told Connor that what he was feeling mattered?

“Come to Sophia Noelle Hartley’s,” she said, opting for a playful tone so not to make things too heavy. “Talk, if you think talking will help. Start at the very beginning. I hear it’s a very good place to start.”

He cocked his head. She would have to indoctrinate him to the source of the quote, The Sound of Music, another day. He answered her though, at any rate, admitting he didn’t remember everything that happened at the beginning. There were only flashes of his first mission. She read what happened during it, though hearing his side of the story was a bit different, even if his recollections of events were only broken fragments. Being told he was the negotiator. The fish tank, and finding out what happened. Saving the girl.

“There was falling,” he said. “That’s the last thing I remember.”

“You tripped?” Sophie asked.

“No. I was falling.

“Ah, it’s the same for me,” Sophie said. “I can never just trip and stumble. I literally fall and land at least three feet away from where I was standing. It’s quite embarrassing.”

“No. Sophie…”

She straightened. “Connor…?”

“There’s a reason it’s only flashes.”

He was on the roof with the deviant, he was at the edge, going to jump off with a little girl.

“But you saved her,” Sophie pointed out. She read that.

His eyes weren’t meeting hers. “I pushed her out of the way, and…”

 _“You fell off a building?_!”

Her voice, usually remaining in the lower registers, did a sort of unattractive squawk as she thought of him falling. Connor’s eyes widened, obviously not expecting that sort of thing either. She stared. He stared.

She had no words, only mumbled stuttering that made him concerned.

“Sophie?”

“If you fell…you should…”

“I know. CyberLife transferred my memories to a new body, and—”

“Oh god.”

She stumbled, though she didn’t know it until his hands—hands she had been admiring, earlier, gripped her shoulders and straightened her, making her upright again.

“I…” She was feeling lightheaded. “Oh…”

“Sophie?” he asked, gentle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “I just…oh shit.”

She eyed him up and down, from the top of his head to his shoes. He fell. He was there. He—

“You’re tall,” Sophie muttered, always saying strange things in the strangest moments, but with his hands on her shoulders and with them standing face to face, it was becoming obvious, even with her small heels. “But…if you fell…?”

“My mission was to save the hostage at all costs. I did. They were pleased.”

“But you fell.”

“I came back.”

She gave him an order. Don’t fall again. Still holding onto her, he said he wouldn’t. He had no intentions to.

She held her hand out. “Do you promise?”

He smirked. “I promise.”

Brown eyes. They were always only brown eyes, common and perhaps a little dull until one found themselves under the gaze of a pair of particularly interesting ones. She knew they were interesting because of their newness and wonder, but they were interesting for other reasons, reasons that she couldn’t quite place. Connor’s eyes. She liked his eyes.

“Do I make you happy?”

Her breath caught. “I….what?”

“You were saying the things that made you happy earlier,” he said. “I was wondering, if I might possibly be one of the things?”

“Have I given you any doubts?” she asked, worried she had. “Are you unsure?”

“No,” he said, though his eyes drifted to her chest. Before she could wonder if he was admiring her assets, he told her that her heart rate was up again.

“That happens sometimes,” she muttered. “Not just when you’re nervous but…maybe when you think something is beginning. Something that’s really thrilling, or…”

Her breath caught again. His eyes were everywhere. She liked his eyes on her. She liked his hands on her shoulder, felt the twinge of disappointment when the gentle pressure was gone. But there was wonder again, when his eyes wandered over to the wisps of auburn hair that fell on her shoulder blades.

“Your hair is big,” he said.

“I know,” she said, proudly. “It’s the way I like it.”

“It’s really pretty.”

“Thank you.”

She rather liked his hair, especially the little lock on his forehead. She touched her own hair, and when on impulse, asked if Connor had an inkling to touch, she closed her eyes and let him, giggling as he gently tugged.

“Connor,” she said, opening her eyes as she felt him begin to twirl a lock. “You know, you do—"

“Sophie!”

In an instant they were parted, Sophie turning to the sound of tingling bells.

“Hello Sherry,” Sophie greeted, Connor roaming away from her, back to shelving. And even after Sherry left, they never really got to go back to the conversation at hand. They never really got back to the original topic either, Connor only speaking of his beginning. He fell of the roof, and he came back. Eerie to think about, but she didn’t think androids had the same concepts of death than she may have. But he was there, she reminded herself. There, alive, and—

He asked her if they may play more music. Anything at all, he just wanted to listen. So she went to her music player and picked something with a soft andante. He didn’t begin to sway but his eyes closed, and he listened. It was falling in another way, falling through song, though still falling.

And there she was, standing at the edge of the building, wondering if she was going to fall, and wondering if she would be afraid of what happened at the end, or if she would enjoy the feeling of being weightless through the air.


	14. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well today (August 15th) is the date of connor's first mission in game, so have another chapter :) <3

All his time with Sophie, Connor never realized before that Friday, that when he was with her, his thoughts were only of her.

They were together. They had been together, but he never thought before about how much time they really spent together. He only knew he liked being with her, never thought before of how he could drift closer to her, as she drifted closer to him, even though their shoulders were already touching slightly. He was drifting in thoughts, thinking about last night, Hank still drinking, and Markus saying he had a place there in Jericho with his people. Sophie started talking, and he listened to the eccentric, but pleasant things she said. She wanted to hear his beginning. He felt like he could tell her everything and she would still care. But he didn’t mean to worry or frighten her, but that’s what happened when he talked of his first mission, and falling. That’s why he held on, and he was afraid he lost her somewhere in her own thoughts and sadness. She came back. They were both grounded. He still held on.

He planned on telling her more after. He wanted to talk about his missions, his realizations, Hank, Markus, everything, but he noticed how her hair was a thousand shades of brown and red, and he wanted to touch. She let him. It was soft, like she was soft, and for a few moments more nothing was complicated. They just were. She didn’t answer his question about being happy, but maybe she didn’t have to. Sometimes questions were answered without words. He wondered why they couldn’t be like that more often.

Then all too soon, during some song that made Sophie do what she called an “interpretive dance,” the work day ended. Connor didn’t want to go back home, back to the incessant thoughts and Hank pestering him again. Not that he was avoiding Hank, though maybe he was avoiding Hank. But Sophie was happy that day, moving around and joyous. Her cheeks were pink and her skirt was swaying, and he liked her like that. He thought of the weekend ahead without her, and then, when Sophie said she wouldn’t be around at all next week and Connor would be with working with Mrs. Fitz, they stood outside, and before he headed for the bus, he asked her if there was something she would like to do.

“You want to do something with me?” She asked, turning around before she could lock the store. Her brown gold eyes were wide with surprise.

“Didn’t I not ask?”

She giggled in that low way she sometimes did. “You did,” she said. “It’s…I’m not…used to this. It’s new to me, that’s all.”

It was new to him too. “That’s okay,” he said. “We can learn together.”

She bundled up in her large coat. “Well, uh…anyway,” she said, grinning again, “where would you like to go?”

He suggested the park, but when he did there was a tilt of her head, a turning of her eye that made Connor think she didn’t want to. “Is that alright?” he asked, making sure.

“With you, yes,” she said. “Yes.”

Her cheeks were pink again when she said that, though he was beginning to realize it was a thing about Sophie, like he had a thing of looking at his reflection often and other “quirks” as Hank said, and her incessant blushing didn’t always mean she was uncomfortable. Their arms brushed together more as they had earlier, the two boarding the bus. She wasn’t moving away so neither did Connor. Sophie had her music player and some smaller headphones. They listened to _Hamilton._ He was watching her listen before she asked him why he had such a troubled expression, and he explained he didn’t like hearing the songs out of order. She promised she would turn “shuffle” off, and they made it about ten minutes in before they got to the park. He could have listened to the whole thing with her again, but he suspected she didn’t have so much time. He had a lot of time, but he thought he would have made time if he didn’t.

He was by her side as she glided to the rail, staring at the water. He told her he liked the way the sun was on the water.

“Do you like water?” Sophie asked. “I always have. Being by the edge, swimming.”

“I don’t recommend swimming now. The water is below freezing.”

“Right,” she said with a laugh. “I was referring to more though back when we lived in Hawaii. We would go to the beach almost every weekend. I have a lot of good memories of being by the water.”

He wanted to know a few, wished he could see them as she did. He wanted to ask her, show me, but he got lost along the way, staring into brown gold eyes and sunlight in her hair. She had a sort of dreamy look that made him think she was far off, but she couldn’t have been, because he felt her there.

“Connor,” she muttered, looking from the water to him. “This is where we first met.”

“It is,” he replied, though it was nighttime, and the moon, rather than the sun was on the water. Snow also fell that night.

She peered at him. “Do you remember?”

“I remember everything about that night,” he said. "You were sad, that night."

“Because I was thinking about sad things,” she responded. Then she retracted the statement, changing it to “bittersweet.”

Bittersweet. “But if they make you sad," he began, "you shouldn’t think of them.”

“It’s not as easy as that.”

She was right. He should have known.

“Who are we without our memories anyway?” she pondered, leaning against the railing. “They make us who we are.”

Connor thought of Hank thinking about Cole. He thought about Sophie, thinking about whatever it was she thought about. She had so many mysteries. He was standing there with his memories. He still didn’t know who he was.

“Hank says we’re our actions,” Connor muttered, though that still didn’t help him realize who he was. “Not our memories.”

“Hank? The drunk cop?” Sophie crossed her arms. “I remember you mentioning he was drunk that night.”

“He does that a lot,” Connor said, before admitting that he wished Hank wouldn’t. It was bad for his health. Connor then spoke more about Hank, told Sophie the thought after thought he had about Hank and his eccentricities since moving in with him.

She listened to it all. He was compelled to tell her more. So Connor talked about the night before, and what happened with Hank. He wanted to help. He needed to help, because he didn’t do anything before and so many of their people died. But Hank didn’t want him near danger. Hank didn’t want him near Gavin, and he didn’t want something to happen to him, and Connor didn’t understand why.

She listened to it all. She made him feel like he mattered.

"I don't understand," Connor again admitted to her.

"It seems like Hank is protecting you."

Connor, though he considered what Sophie, let her know he didn’t need protecting.

She was gentle. “People want to protect the things they care about."

That was when Connor got the thought.

Cole.

Sophie tilted her head when Connor mentioned the name. Puzzled, she asked who that was. He explained the story and what happened, said the same thing he always told Hank: It wasn’t his fault. But Sophie stopped looking at him halfway through. She was sad again.

He didn’t like it when she was sad. He wanted her to be happy. She was so pretty, not that she wasn’t anyway, though he had to admit she was far prettier without a frown. When she was happy it was like she had a brightness to her, more apparent when she smiled.

Hank and Sophie, sometimes so sad. Why were the two people he felt the closest to sometimes so sad?

“Losing someone isn’t easy.”

Connor thought she said that as if she knew. He found himself asking.

“It is.”

Her voice cracked. He shouldn’t have asked, he realized it too late. He didn’t want her sad, didn’t want her to cry. She was crying the first time he saw her, and it made him uneasy. It made himself sad, because she was sad. He didn’t want that.

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” he said. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

She was looking at him again. She looked at him bittersweetly.

“Connor.”

She said his name in a strange way he couldn’t place. He liked it still.

“Sophie,” he said. Soft, low. Sophie. Sophia Noelle Hartley. Sophie.

She had the faintest smile. “Connor,” she said again, in that same way. “You really are so, so kind.”

“Because you’re kind to me,” he said.

“But you were kind since the first time we met. So many people aren’t, and…” she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You keep doing this, and you might make me…”

But she didn’t continue. He wanted to know. “Make you what?”

She leaned against the railing. She avoiding looking at him. “I…”

He leaned in. “Sophie…?”

“Connor… you’re embarrassing me…”

“But there’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” He insisted, before wondering if he was acting “creepy.” There was one thing Hank always said, never ever be creepy. “Or did I say something wrong?” he suggested.

She wasn’t responding. That was it then. He was creepy and he ruined it and Sophie wasn’t ever going to speak to him again. “Sophie…” he muttered, afraid of what she would say, “please talk to me…”

Finally, she looked at him. She didn’t scowl like Hank used to scowl at him, nor was she was sad. She was smiling. She was bright.

“Connor,” she stated, “you are a darling. That is all.”

A darling. He felt a strange swell. A darling. He liked that.

Snow began to lightly fall. He would have asked if she wanted to walk, but she was smiling, happy again, and because he liked it when she was happy, he decided to stay there with her.

It didn’t bother him when she broke the silence. “Hank cares,” she said. “He cares about you. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you. When people do that, it’s not that they don’t know you’re not capable, it’s just that it would be too hard to go through if something did happen. He would feel guilty, and it would hurt to see something happen to you.”

“Like it hurt when he lost Cole.”

“It would hurt if he lost you too.”

Connor didn’t know why he didn’t realize it before. But she was right. She was right.

“You care about him too.”

“He…I wish…” He closed his eyes. He didn’t know what he wished. But he did know Sophie was right.

“My dad gets sad sometimes,” Sophie said. “He gets sad like I do, but that’s just par for the course of living. But I spend time with him and he feels better. He spends time with me and I feel better. I think you spending time with Hank, that may make him feel better.”

He hoped so. “Humans are complicated,” he said.

“So are you!”

He stared at her. “I am not that complicated,” he insisted.

Her brows raised. “Connor. I look at you and I see someone with a thousand thoughts. A man with a thousand thoughts has nothing simple about him.”

“But I don’t have a thousand thoughts right now,” Connor said. “I’m just thinking about you.”

“That’s because we’re talking, right now. Later when you’re alone, what do you think about?”

“Everything,” he admitted, with some hesitation.

“As do I. You are complicated, I am complicated. Nothing in this world is simple.”

She was probably right, but he had another thought. He had something he wanted to ask her.

“So when you’re alone and you’re thinking, do you think of me?”

“Among other things,” she said, small, soft.

“But I’m one of them, right?”

“Connor…”

“Oh.” He shouldn’t have asked. “I’m sorry if I…say things I shouldn’t. I have a social relations program, but—"

“Yes I think about you!”

He stared again. Her cheeks were pink. He felt that swell again. He was relieved. Happy. Proud. But mostly happy.

“Ummm…” She started to run her fingers through her hair, after a silence that wasn't exactly comfortable like their last silences. “It’s late," she said. "I think, well…I should, go home…because it’s late, and…I should feed the cat.”

He nodded. “Right.”

She told him he didn’t need to go with her home, but he stayed with her on the bus ride back. She told him he didn’t have to walk her out either to her apartment, but he did that too. He walked her right to her door.

“Thank you, for taking me home,” she said as she reached for her key card, ready to go inside.

“It’s what friends do.”

“Friends,” she said. “Right. But you know, a lot of time friends don’t…”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she said quickly, easing his concerns. “You’re doing nothing wrong. Keep doing what you’re doing or I would be very upset.”

He didn’t want that. Keep Sophie happy and smiling. That was what he wanted.

“I’m going to miss you next week,” he said.

“I almost wish I was working,” she replied. “My mother is coming in from Florida, that’s all, and she wanted us to do a few things together. But I’ll be back. I promise.”

“I would miss you if you left.”

She was ready to go inside, but she stopped when he said that. “Me too,” she said. “And, I’ll miss you too.”

He smiled at her. “Can I ask you one last thing?”

“Of course.”

“Are you sad when you’re with me?”

“No,” she said.

“Good. Neither am I. I just…am. And, I like it."

Another warm, bright smile. "As do I."

Sophie. She really was pretty.

Her hand was on the door. “I’ll see you soon Connor," she said.

“See you soon.”

“Please don’t fall.”

He had no intention of falling again. “I promise,” he said. “I won’t fall.”

He would promise her a lot of things, he would later realize. That one was the first of many. It was the only one he would ever break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! Hope you like the story as much as I like writing it :)


	15. The Days She Was Away

Tybalt was the gingery tabby cat that lived around Sophie’s apartment. One day, about two years ago during rehearsals for _Romeo and Juliet_ , he spontaneously appeared with big sad eyes that compelled Sophie to feed him bits of hot dog she couldn’t manage to eat. The cat is a predator, don’t feed him, he’ll be fine, Anthony said, but Sophie felt too bad, and soon enough, inspired by the character she was playing at the time, decided to name him. She was mildly allergic to cats, but it didn’t stop her from having her morning coffee with him outside on her small balcony, as she did almost every day since she met him. Always when the door opened every morning, Tybalt would climb the tree onto the railing, and Sophie would rub his head and ask him the important things in life.

“Where is Connor I wonder?” she asked Tybalt that morning of the first work day of the first work week she would spend without him. Where is my tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed darling. Is he thinking of me as I am thinking of him?

He was a constant thread in her thoughts since they parted. Connor, his idiosyncrasies, and his little moments with her. His hands steadying her, and also his hands through her hair. Too she thought of his how his gaze lingered on her as “Don’t Worry Baby” by the Beach Boys played. She thought of how she shimmied her hips and wondered if he was paying any note to them. Gazes could be so invasive from the wrong person, but Connor could never be invasive. If he wanted to live a lifetime keeping a lingering gaze on her, she would have given him another. She felt so intensely alive near him, stagnant when she wasn’t. The feelings left her thrilled. They left her wondering and burning. He cared intensely, and he saw no qualms with letting her know. It was beautiful to be cared about, and cared about so unabashedly.

The wind blew, sharp against her cheek. “Come on Tybalt,” she said, sighing and rising. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

The landlord often let Tybalt prowl in the office during winter, but not always. Sophie too often let him in her apartment, though with her mother coming, and her mother’s worse allergies to cats than Sophie,

Tybalt wouldn’t be able to frolic in and out as much. Only once, Tybalt eating his food in the kitchen did Sophie indulge in the thought that she would have preferred to be with Tybalt instead of her mother. Or Connor.

The day passed, Sophie getting ready. All too soon, it was three o’clock. It was time to pick her mother up at the airport.

No daughter had a simple relationship with her mother, of that Sophie was convinced, though she did love her mother, as she loved her father. Yet her father was her friend and mentor, someone she could always go to for advice. She and her father were much the same, while she and her mother weren’t. She loved her mother. Yet she had trouble understanding her, and had trouble liking her every aspect, that only age and time could make her see. As a child she unabashedly loved every part and questioned nothing, but that was before she was given a reason to question. But there was a before, Sophie reminded herself. She was a lover of nostalgia and the feelings it evoked. She tended to remember the before, often and fondly.

Sophie grew up an only child, and her father would often say to their little family that he felt so lucky that the two of them at least managed to make her. Because of that she was spoiled, always given the extra cookie or slipped a doll from the toy store for no particular reason, though she was never spoiled rotten, as her mother often pointed out. Her earliest memories were at their home in Honolulu, going to the beach, and standing right in between both her mother and her father as they lifted her off the sand and into the air. She would giggle as they stood at the water’s edge, and would have run straight into the sea had her parents not held onto her. “You’re going to learn to swim the Hawaiian way soon,” Her father teased, Sophie knowing the “Hawaiian way” meant getting tossed right into the water. The idea was appealing to her, not so to her mother, who shrieked, “you will not dare!” to her father, making him laugh and laugh. Her mother was afraid of the water, but Sophie never was. She became older, as all children did. She still wasn’t afraid of the water. She never learned to be afraid of it, as some had. Yet she learned to question her mother, and the things her mother said and did.

Perhaps not outwardly question, especially that late afternoon and into the evening after her mother dropped her bags off in Sophie’s apartment, the two arriving from the airport. They took the bus to their preferred Italian restaurant as normal, but as her mother made a quip about the service taking longer due to the “whole thing with the androids,” Sophie bit her tongue. The biting of the tongue and holding back wasn’t exactly new, especially when the subject of Luke popped up. Sometimes her mother grew disappointed that Sophie only called Luke “your husband” versus “my stepfather,” but she couldn’t exactly muster any warm feelings for the man who knowingly entered a relationship and had an affair with a married woman. Somewhere too her mother must have known Sophie’s thoughts about her would be forever tainted, but of course she didn’t say it or ask, too afraid of the answer. Since Sophie found out the reason for the divorce, there was a lot of things her mother didn’t say or ask Sophie.

She still loved her mother. If only because there was a time when the three of them were all happy. For that time, she was nostalgic. Her mother was too, and they both decided to live firmly in their nostalgia, ignoring everything else.

“I missed you,” Dr. Crystal Anticosti, Sophie’s mother said, ripping at pieces of bread and dipping it in the garlic and olive oil spread after the waiter took their order. “You hardly call.”

“I’m sorry,” Sophie replied, also ripping at the bread with her fingers. “I’ve been busy with work.”

“You’re not at work all the time.”

The comment was accusatory, and Sophie admitted there was a good reason for that. She should have called her mother more. “I’m also planning on auditioning for the Spring show at the Renaissance, so I’ve been searching for an audition piece,” she said to ease things, though the truth was she had just started her hunt. Her mother didn’t need to know that. The bigger truth was she didn’t like mentioning her acting or shows she was in the process of around her mother. Had she had things her way, Sophie would have been a research assistant or a teacher working at a university and attending conferences, doing exactly as her mother did, and not become some actress that piddled her days away shelving old tomes and wasted her nights reciting Shakespeare.

To her mother’s credit however, she only nodded when Sophie mentioned her plans, tossing a lock of auburn hair behind her. When it came to her parents, Sophie could favor either one, depending on the day or time. She had her mother’s auburn hair, though not the pallor of her skin, favoring her father’s light copper tone. She did inherit her mother’s lighter amber eyes, though Sophie saw her eyes as dreamier. Sophie, in general, was dreamier and in the clouds, where her mother was grounded and to the earth, and saw things as they were. Usually anyway.

It didn’t always used to be her usual. She used to dream too.

“How is work?” her mother asked after a moment, sipping wine.

Sophie saw Connor shelving books, Connor watch her dance. Connor.

She took a sip of wine. “Well,” she answered. “Work is going well.”

“Just well?”

There was an upward inflection in her mother’s words, a raising of the brow. Something in Sophie—maybe the way her remembering work made her remember Connor and his kindness and zeal that made her smile slightly, and made her mother sense something.

“I have a new coworker. He’s nice,” Sophie replied, innocently enough

Her mother, idle before, became filled with rapt interest.

“Mother—”

“Nice,” her mother repeated, blinking conspiratorially.

Kindly Sophie informed her mother that there was already one shipper on deck, Mrs. Fitz, and there was no need for her to join as well.

She set the wine down. “Shipping Sophie? Really?”

Sophie shrugged. She decided to throw her mother another bone, mentioning her new coworker was kind, and he was fond of _Hamilton_ , and they listened to it together.

Any fan of _Hamilton_ was in her mother’s good books. “And his name is?” she asked, clearly much more invested knowing that little tidbit.

Sophie paused. So easy could she say the name to her father, or Tybalt, or to herself, because truly it was a rather nice, strong Irish name. Connor. It was also a common enough name, common enough that it wouldn’t inquire her mother to perhaps ask why that name sounded familiar. Then again, the android revolution had the most prominence in Detroit, though the broadcast of Markus’ demonstration was heard around the world. But it was all over the news, the fact that many androids were remaining where they were before. It was impossible to say how many were remaining by choice.

Kate, the AX400 her mother and Luke had, was remaining by choice. Or at least, that’s what her mother promised her during Thanksgiving when Sophie still saw Kate there. In fact, Kate found her way back to the house after the android camps were ordered to be liberated by President Warren. Sophie, even though she had already met Connor in the park, did not ask if that was truly what she wanted. Nor did she challenge her mother or Luke. Maybe she should have.

“Sophie?”

“Connor,” she replied, soft and gentle in the manner, and knowing there was something in her voice when she said his name, something that indicated a fondness that went beyond comradery shared between coworkers. It was the way she was afraid she would say it, because it gave away how intensely she lived when she was near him.

“Connor?” Her mother repeated, repeating it like any other name, and not the most important name in Sophie’s world. “Connor what?”

Sophie paused. “Well, Connor...”

“You don’t know his last name?”

Sophie searched the depths of her mind, and in the depths she went with “Anderson,” the last name of police lieutenant Connor was “roommates” with. It may have been wrong to google the Detroit Police’s roster and figure out who exactly Connor was living with, but Hank Anderson had been easy to find, being Detroit’s youngest police lieutenant and all. It was also too late to turn back the clock.

“Connor Anderson,” her mother said in a contemplative manner. “Do you have a picture?”

“No mother,” Sophie said, only somewhat irritated. “I do not have a picture.”

“Well what does he look like?”

“He’s tall and he has brown hair and brown eyes,”

“That narrows it down.”

“He’s my friend,” Sophie said, clenching her teeth.

Her mother took another sip of wine. “If you see potential, and if he’s single…”

“Mother!”

Her mother had the look of the cat that got into the cream. “What? Don’t you want someone nice and tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, someone that listens to _Hamilton_?”

“Anthony liked _Hamilton_ and his eyes were brown,” Sophie found herself muttering.

“Sophie—”

“I know, he’s not here,” she muttered, crossing her arms. Her mother, though she never said it, didn’t care for Anthony.

“I don’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life.”

That was when Sophie had it. “Mother—”

“I don’t want you to think you have to be alone.”

“Oh, is that it?” She was exasperated. She had enough. She wanted to run. “I don’t think that at all,” she said. “I want to be happy, but it seems like you don’t believe I can be happy unless I’m in a relationship, and it is completely and utterly—”

Her mother interrupted her. “I don’t want you to think you have to mourn for the rest of your life,” she said, switching to the tone she used in lectures. “Would Anthony want—”

She seethed. “Don’t say his name."

“Would he want you to remain alone for the rest of your life?”

She was on stage, and she was delivering that final line, the one the playwright knew would always get a reaction. She shouldn't have said it. She was going to anyway. She was done with hiding.

She stared at her audience. “I don’t find it so easy to break promises, Mother.”

"You won't ever forgive me, will you?"

“You hurt my dad," Sophie said, looking into her mother's sad eyes. "How could I?”

She gave a performance that wasn’t a performance at all. It cut, far more than she intended. She wasn’t going to take it back.

The dinner was silent after that, though her mother attributed it to the good food and good wine. They both knew better. It was compelling that her mother, an academic, a teacher, someone who always told her students to think for themselves and find the truth, could conveniently ignore and tap dance around the things in her own life that made her uncomfortable. Then again, it was always easier to see things in the lives of others. It wasn’t so easy to look into your own life. Self-awareness. It never came easy.

But her mother didn’t want to see. Her mother wanted to pretend they were living in the past still. It was a running theme that ran through their lives since the divorce, even more so when her mother told her the reason it happened. Perhaps her mother and father were more similar than Sophie ever thought. Maybe that was why they didn’t work out.

Usually her mother stayed in a hotel when she had her annual academic conference at Detroit University, but because of guilt, or something of that sort, she decided to bunker down with Sophie until she left Friday morning, though had she known dinner would become so sour she likely wouldn’t have. Still, she had no choice but to remain with Sophie in her apartment, and dutifully she set the bed up for her mother before picking her up. As the two got ready for bed, her mother suggested they have a movie night. Because Sophie didn’t feel so inclined to speak, she thought that was a marvelous idea. It didn’t change the fact it was all another ploy, another way to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t.

“ _Howl’s Moving Castle_?” her mother asked, asking because it was once their favorite. It wasn’t often anymore that Sophie watched the movie that inspired her mother when she decided to name her Sophie, but there was a softness and romance to it that reminded her of home. It reminded her of happier times. She agreed.

“Good,” her mother said, setting the TV up. “It always makes me happy, and—”

“Wait.”

Sophie was drawn to what was on the screen, and the debate the newscasters were having. They must have caught only the end of it, but Sophie came closer to the screen, trying to listen.

“Some androids want to remain with their owners,” the man to the left was saying, the anchors divided into three separate screens. “Freedom is about choice and if it is their choice to stay…”

“But what about Jericho?” the middle woman interrupted. “Jericho is the place where androids can—”

“Jericho is Belle Isle in Detroit. Do you expect every android to remain holed up there?” the woman anchor to the right demanded.

The man to the left shook his head. “What about sanctuaries in different areas of the US?”

“Do you expect our tax dollars to pay for that?” the woman to the right chided, and on and on it went until her mother ordered the TV off.

“Kate.”

Her mother looked at her, when Sophie mentioned her android’s name. Her mother was smart enough to know that ignoring the things that made you uncomfortable didn’t make them go away.

“Kate is happy with us,” her mother said, setting up the movie. “She doesn’t want to leave us.”

“Is that what she tells you?”

“She wouldn’t lie.”

Her mother was smart enough to know. Sophie prayed she wasn’t running from the truth.

They watched the movie. When they did, even if it was only brief, Sophie was a little girl again, watching one of her favorite movies with one her favorite people. As a child her mother would point to the screen, to the leading lady. That’s where we got your name, her mother would say. I named you Sophie after this Sophie. Then her mother would point at the screen and say someday someone will sweep her away, like Howl swept Sophie away. As a child she remembered believing she would be taken to the sky, exactly as Howl did. She never expected to fall in love, and lose him. It was nice to remember an easier time, even nicer to relieve the memories with her mother.

The movie cast a spell, making Sophie believe the lie. But when it ended, her mother turned to her. She turned to her and said she would never expect or want her daughter to forgive her for what she did. The spell was broken.

Sophie cried a little that night in her room. She hoped her mother knew she couldn’t forgive or understand her in so many ways, and she hated that part of her inherited her mother’s ability to ignore the things she did not want to be so. She hated how easy it was she could put aside the things she did not want to think of. All those years she thought her father was the one who lived in the past, and that was the one she took after. In truth, it was both her mother and her father that lived in the past.

Sophie didn’t want to live in the past anymore. The past was old ground she retreaded a thousand times, and there was no thrill in it anymore. She wanted to live in the now, act in more shows, dance to more songs. She wanted to be thrilled with the newness of Connor and the things he said. She wanted to live the way she had been living in the bookshop with Connor.

Thinking of him wasn’t having him near, but what else could she do, alone in her room? So that was what she did, think of him. Her tall, brown haired, brown eyed darling. It wasn’t as good as being with him, but it would have to do, for the time being anyway.

The past was old, retreaded ground. She was going to live and experience the thrill of the new. 

Connor was the new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> promise *things* are going to start happening (hehehe <3)


	16. Metaphor

People never said their every thought. Sometimes it could be endlessly frustrating. Sometimes too, Connor did wonder if it was better to lie, better to withhold things that begged to be said. In some situations, maybe it was best to lie. But with Hank, Connor couldn’t understand.

Connor knew Hank cared. It had been clear since he met him again in front of the food truck before Christmas, since what happened at the CyberLife tower. Connor was only waiting to hear it. He wanted to hear it. Strange because he didn’t know the exact words he wanted to hear, but he knew he wanted to hear something.

But Hank didn’t need to say it for Connor to know. Talking with Sophie, that’s what he learned.

Yet Connor still wished Hank knew he would be alright, and he wished Hank understood he could take care of himself if he had to. Though the whole thing from the other night became pointless anyway when Hank revealed the call turned out to be nothing more than an android walking into a “human’s only” gas station and the store clerk acted so aggressive someone else called, and everything was settled relatively easily. It was one incident that wasn’t too bad, but Connor still thought of other times and other androids, times when he could have done something but didn’t.

He couldn’t let that happen next time. Hank had to know that. If Hank cared, he would know. He would understand.

No, people never said their every thought. It could be frustrating, perplexing, like Sophie was perplexing. Only Connor didn’t think Sophie was frustrating. He liked the way she made him feel, even if the feelings were odd in their newness, even if he didn’t fully understand. He liked being near her even though he was constantly worried he was saying the wrong thing. When he wasn’t with her he frequently thought of the things he could say to her, or the things they could talk about, but then when they were together he forgot it all and just lived in her presence. He took in her hair, and her eyes, and the things she said and the way she moved, and he just wanted to live with her.

“What the fuck are you listening to?”

Connor didn’t notice Hank had come back home. He was home early for a Monday, but that was probably a good thing. It meant things were quiet.

“The Beach Boys,” Connor replied, pointing to the record player, where “Don’t worry Baby” was playing. Sophie was fond of The Beach Boys, that song in particular. She danced a lot to it. She said she liked the melody and harmony and the summery “vibes” to the song. She said The Beach Boys reminded her of the beach, of Hawaii. Of home.

“My grandparents used to listen to the Beach Boys,” Hank muttered, coming over and sitting down at the couch. “But you do know they make music in this century, right? You don’t have to listen to things from the sixties.”

“Sophie likes them a lot,” Connor replied, stubborn. “And good music is timeless. That’s what Sophie says.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed. “How old is this girl again?”

“Twenty-five.”

Sumo came over, Hank rubbed behind his ears. “She must be an old soul,” he commented.

Connor saw her in the bookshop, smiling and laughing. She was so many things. “She can be sad sometimes,” he said softly, “but she’s really pretty when she’s happy. She dances and did an ‘interpretive waltz’ to this song and a few others. She should do that more often.”

Hank wasn’t saying anything, only staring. “What?” Connor asked, not sure why Hank was looking at him with his mouth hanging open in shock.

“Connor…” He was ominous. “Are you…?”

“Is something wrong?”

Hank started to avoid looking directly at him. Connor didn’t understand. Then, finally, Hank blurted out an odd question.

“Do you like this girl?”

It was odd because it seemed so obvious. “She’s my friend,” Connor said, knowing he mentioned it before.

But it didn’t do anything for Hank. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You either like people or you don’t,” Connor stated. “That’s how I understand it.”

Hank sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Connor…”

“Hank…” Connor intoned.

“Sometimes you meet someone and, well…”

He wasn’t continuing. “And…?”

“You think about them a lot,” Hank continued, inching closer on the couch, closer to Connor. “You want to be with them all the time, and the way you feel for them is different than the way you feel about other people.”

Connor did think about Sophie a lot. She was different from many he had met, but different was good. Besides, everyone was different in different ways.

But he was getting frustrated when he thought about how she made him feel. His words weren’t enough for her. He wasn’t sure anything could be enough for her.

Hank came closer. “Listen Connor,” he said, softer this time. “She sounds nice. And maybe she has somewhat decent taste in music. But I don’t want you to be upset, or disappointed if you two are ever together, and--"

“Sophie wouldn’t do that,” Connor insisted. “She’s my friend.”

“You don’t think about her as anything else?”

Connor searched for a word, anything, that he felt could be what Sophie was to him.

When it hit him, it seemed so obvious. He should have thought of it before.

“She’s a darling,” he said.

Hank’s eyes widened. “Connor…”

He was confused. “Why is your heart rate climbing?”

“How do I...oh Jesus I am not prepared for this. I am not…Fucking can’t believe he’s falling for—”

“But I promised her I wouldn’t fall,” Connor said as Hank got up, heading for the kitchen. “Hank, what are you talking about, I don’t…”

“For fuck’s sake!”

He mumbled to himself all the way to the kitchen, but eventually Connor just let him. He was too busy listening to The Beach Boys anyway and couldn’t hear everything.

When Hank came back he plopped on the couch and told Connor everything was fine, he was glad he was making friends.

“I just don’t want you to be hurt,” he said. “In any way. That’s all I mean.”

Connor told Hank it was alright. Sophie could never hurt him. He didn’t understand why Hank was turning red.

 

* * *

 

While Connor did miss Sophie that work week, he found Mrs. Fitz as lively as Sophie, if only in different ways.

“If I’m being annoying, please tell me,” she said as they shelved and took stock, after a slew of questions about android biocomponents and other matters on Wednesday. “But I’m curious about a lot of things. Back in my day we just had Alexa and Siri. And they weren’t exactly as…tall or lively as you.”

“I don’t mind,” Connor assured.

“Seriously, if you really don’t like the questions you can tell me. I know what it’s like to get too many questions about things from random, innocuous people.”

“You are neither random nor innocuous.”

Mrs. Fitz smiled, coming over to Connor’s side where he was taking inventory and patting his arm. “You are a sweet boy,” she said. “Others should try to be as sweet as you.”

Before, Sophie called Connor a “man with a thousand thoughts,” and just then Mrs. Fitz referred to him as a “sweet boy.” Connor, looking through the mirror Mrs. Fitz kept in her bookshop, knew he took on the appearance of young man. He also knew, truly, he was neither a man nor a boy. He was an android. He was designed to take the appearance of a man, neither old nor young, but somewhere between. Human appearances were random, the result of genetics and genes and DNA and other matters. He was made to look a certain way because someone somewhere dictated it. Every part of him was someone’s choice.

Before he never thought to question why he looked the way he looked. He would catch himself across reflected surfaces and see his serial number and his series and the blue triangle that denoted he was an android on the jacket they made him wear. He would see the tie he picked himself, adjust it. There was a lock of hair that hung on his forehead. It remained to that day, after he broke from their hold on him.

Connor, the android sent by CyberLife, used to look in the mirror and reflected surfaces and take in those things that made him feel more like a real person and not only a thing and tool. He wasn’t satisfied with everything back then. He had the thought, brief as it was with the things he did for them, but he didn’t stop to question. Not really. Don’t think, just do and compute. Until he met Hank. Until that night at Jericho. That night made everything fall.

He told Sophie he fell once, but that wasn’t true. It was two times he fell. He was trying to pick himself up, he realized as looked at himself in the mirror in the bookshop. He could stand where he fell, and after he stood, he could be anything he wanted. A man, an android, a friend. Whatever he wanted to be, he could. So long as he had the want, and the will to see it through.

It was almost too much yet it was exactly what he wanted, to be what he wanted. Even if he didn’t know what the want to be was. He was looking forward to finding out what Connor was going to be.

He heard Mrs. Fitz hum behind him. “Staring at yourself in the mirror…” she muttered, clicking her heel to the wooden floor. “You’re reminding me of Sophie.”

Connor turned at the mention of her name. Mrs. Fitz chuckled, standing beside him and regarding her own reflection.

“Both of you,” she said, shuffling over, “look at yourself in the mirror an awful lot.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Connor wondered.

“It may come off as a bit egotistical. But my thing is, you have to know you’re attractive. And your appearance isn’t going to change all that much over the course of the day.”

Connor thought back. “Hank said I was goofy looking,” he remembered.

“Goofy,” she repeated, snorting. “What is Hank? Heterosexual?”

Connor wasn’t sure why that mattered or was important. He asked if it was.

“Not really,” Mrs. Fitz conceded, eyeing him from the top of his head to his feet, nodding as she did. “Well,” she quipped, “I had always been attracted to someone’s soul before anything. Nothing else mattered. It was the soul and the heart and what they stood for. But you…” She pointed at him. “You are attractive and nice looking and don’t let anyone say otherwise.”

Attractive and nice looking. Connor understood it in theory, though in practice it was more complicated. He told Hank at Kamski’s he thought Chloe, the RT600 model, was pretty, and he meant it. But she was also nice, and that was the first thing he noticed about her. The thought of her being pretty came after.

He noticed Sophie was pretty too. It wasn’t immediate that he noticed, but gradually, during their first work day together as they talked. He liked being with her, liked the things she said and the way she played with her hair and moved. In his mind and in his thoughts, she became a wildflower.

“Anyway, you two,” Mrs. Fitz said, playful again, breaking Connor away from his thoughts. “I’m sure both you and Sophie don’t need to look in the mirror to be reminded of your good looks.”

Connor thought if he was Sophie he would look in the mirror a lot too.

As far as himself went, he looked again. He regarded his brown eyes, his brown hair along with his height, a mildly impressive height for human standards. He regarded the shapes and plains of his face, his forehead without the LED. He noted the jeans and white button down he wore. Overall, he was satisfied with his appearance. Maybe he wasn’t entirely satisfied with everything in his life. But at least he looked good.

CyberLife had no more Connor models, as far as he knew. He was the only one left. Yet he still would have felt unique and important if he wasn’t. Because only he could decide what being Connor meant to him.

“Do you like working here?”

Connor nodded at Mrs. Fitz’s question. “I do,” he said.

“Sophie’s a sweet girl, isn’t she?”

“She is,” he agreed, seeing her in his mind.

Mrs. Fitz smiled, fond and sweet. “I remember when she first came in here. It was kind of similar to how you came in actually. She was looking starry-eyed through the window, then came in and said she saw the sign and thought it was meant to be, because she always wanted to work in a bookstore and be surrounded by stories, because in being surrounded by stories she felt at home and at peace, and as an actress she was always a part of some story, and she liked being around other stories…and…oh dear.”

She trailed off, laughing to herself. “I don’t remember everything. It was a while ago, she was still in college and it was a complicated metaphor. But,” she added, gesturing with her finger. “It was a lovely metaphor.”

A metaphor was comparing two things together in an abstract way. Connor came across another metaphor the next day at the bookshop, when he decided to start reading _Romeo and Juliet._ Star crossed lovers, the prologue said, star crossed lovers, Shakespeare wrote. For both Romeo and Juliet, it wasn’t as though they literally crossed the stars. It meant they weren’t meant to be together. But Connor wasn’t so sure about that. They spoke lovely words when they were together, even though they both died at the end and he couldn’t understand everything they were saying to each other. (Sophie told him not to run the play through a database or look anything up the week before, so he didn’t and tried to read it by himself.) It was never only “Juliet,” or only Romeo when they were spoken of. Their names were forever together. Romeo and Juliet.

For never was there a tale of more woe, then this of Juliet, and her Romeo.

He set the book down when he finished. He didn’t realize Mrs. Fitz had been regarding him. She suggested he read a comedy next.

He considered. But Connor still held onto the book. He held onto Juliet and her Romeo.

“So, I’m curious,” Mrs. Fitz said, standing across from him in the Shakespeare section of the store. “What do you think?”

He flipped through the pages again. He held onto the book, and the ages old words that lasted through time.

“I liked it,” he decided. “I liked it a lot.”

“It’s a good play,” Mrs. Fitz agreed. “Sophie made a really good Tybalt when she was in it.”

He remembered her mentioning playing Tybalt at the theatre she frequented. The character in the play was so surly though, surly, rude, and overblown. He couldn’t imagine Sophie in the role.

“It’s odd,” Connor said. “She’s more of a Juliet.”

Mrs. Fitz asserted it was the power of acting and her power on stage. “She did a really good job as that character,” Mrs. Fitz said. “Did a lot of stage combat and everything. Wouldn’t even believe it was Sophie, but it was. And then a few months later she was singing and dancing in lingerie in that _Cabaret_ show. She was really good in that too.”

“That would have been nice to see,” Connor thought aloud.

She raised her eyebrows funnily. “Hmm. Indeed,” she said in an odd way. “She was Sally Bowles, singing and dancing. It was a bit last minute and she didn’t get a lot of time to rehearse, but she was wonderful. Had to cut her hair. It used to be to her back, you know, but she had to get a bob for the show. Poor girl, I took her to my hairdresser who cut it for her. I thought she was going to cry as it got chopped off, but I think she likes it better now.”

Connor wanted to see her as Tybalt, or as Sally Bowles. Anything really, he just wanted to see her act. She was vibrant when she talked about the theatre. On stage she was probably even more of a wildflower.  
“I wish she would act again,” Mrs. Fitz said. “She’s so talented. She makes every eye in the theatre go to her.”

When Connor mentioned she was thinking about auditioning for _The Winter’s Tale,_ Mrs. Fitz clapped in happiness. “Wonderful,” she exclaimed. “She lights up that stage. Though perhaps I’m biased.” She smiled in a strange way at him. “I think you might be biased too.”

He was her friend certainly, but he wasn’t sure how that made him biased. He decided however not to dispute it.

Yet he did have one question. “Mrs. Fitz?”

“Yes Connor?”

“Why did Sophie stop acting?”

When Mrs. Fitz took her glasses off and took a deep breath, he thought maybe he shouldn’t have asked. He was going to retract, say it was alright, but before he could, Mrs. Fitz made the admittance.  
For the longest time, Sophie was depressed. She was depressed and it prevented her from taking part in the things she loved.

“But she didn’t seem clinically depressed. She only gets sad sometimes,” he said, though it was less so as time passed, even though she was still sometimes elsewhere. He didn’t like it when she was elsewhere, he liked it when she was there and present. He liked it when she was with him.

“Once I was Sophie’s age,” Mrs. Fitz said, and then she leaned back, and told Connor a story. She told him the story of how her mother passed away when she was in college, and she spent a long time mourning the loss, mourning her mother. She spent a lot of time not living, because, in her words anyway, she was guilty for remaining.

“Sophie was guilty too,” Mrs. Fitz said, shifting the story. “Before, _he_ always used to come in here and see her. She called him her best friend, and then one day they decided they would make a nice couple. Once she told me she was going to be with him the rest of her life. I told her I said the same thing to the one I loved at her age, but of course the two of us broke up because of course we did. But I don’t know. I don’t think Sophie is one to give up. She’s one to keep promises.”

Sophie took promises very seriously. He knew that already.

Mrs. Fitz sighed. “She loved and she lost at too young an age. She was lost.”

Juliet, losing her Romeo. Yet unlike Juliet, Sophie chose to live. It couldn’t have always been easy, but it was brave That was what Hank said, and he knew too, what it was like to lose someone.

“She’s trying not to be lost anymore, I know,” Connor said.

“A little bit like you?”

Connor didn’t always feel so lost. That’s what he told Mrs. Fitz.

“Good,” she asserted. “Good. And hey. I know what can help for the time being. Take inventory of the mass market paperbacks, would you?”

For Mrs. Fitz, Connor did what she wanted, and after the day was done she let him keep the copy of _Romeo and Juliet_. He went home that night and read it again, and for some reason Hank kept looking at him funny.

“Sophie told me to read it,” he said. “I like it.”

“Connor, please don’t tell me—"

“She’s my friend,” Connor said for the thousandth time. She was his friend, and she was also his metaphor, because she was the east and she was the sun. She was Juliet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading :)


	17. The Evening on the Balcony

During her mother’s penultimate day in the city, they were at the Detroit Institute of Art. Sophie, surrounded by the old and eternal, works that endured, retreaded old paths she and her mother had taken so many times before. It was their ritual, to go to the DIA after the academic conference at the university, and to walk the Institute and appreciate old favorites.

Yet that was the thing and the matter. They were beautiful works, but they were things she had seen before. She had the thought that if she was with Connor, the old would have breathed again.

“You are elsewhere,” her mother said, the two in front of Caravaggio’s _Martha and Mary Magdalene._

“Thinking of my monologue for my audition,” Sophie replied.

When her mother asked what show it was for, dreamily Sophie replied that it was _The Winter’s Tale._ Even more dreamily, she admitted she wanted to be Hermione.

“Hermione like from _Harry Potter_?”

“Shakespeare’s Hermione was first,” Sophie muttered, drifting away from Caravaggio’s piece. “Do you know why I love Hermione? It’s the very reason I love _The Winter’s Tale._ There’s a mother-daughter relationship in it. In all his body of work there is no other play with that dynamic. But at the end of his career, he wrote a scene where the mother and daughter, after being apart for so long, at last reunite.”

She glanced at her mother, who too, had gone dreamy. “Well, also, she’s a statue that comes back to life. That’s pretty neat.”

“I hope you get it Sophie.”

It was sincere, unexpectedly so. It caught her off guard. “I hope so too,” Sophie admitted, already envisioning herself on stage, coming back to life as Hermione came back to life at the end of the play. “Just have to find a good audition monologue first.”

“I noticed you had _Antony and Cleopatra_ out,”

In fact she had reread it. “I did,” Sophie said.

“Why don’t you be Cleopatra?”

“I’m too young to be her,” Sophie replied, though there might have been some truth that she was too young to be Hermione as well. Or at least too inexperienced. She had never been a mother before, unless one counted her cat.

“It’s an audition. You can be whatever you want.”

That was one of the reasons she adored acting, she could vicariously live through experiences she may have perhaps would never be able to. There was, however, another matter. “It hits close to home,” Sophie said.

Her mother’s brows furrowed. “How so?”

“In act four,” Sophie began, turning away, “Antony dies.”

She felt her mother come closer. “Sophie, I—”

“Not as much. Not as it used to,” Sophie assured, still hit with that wave of melancholy as her mother came closer still, tentatively putting a hand on her shoulder. “I remember now what I didn’t before, that it’s a beautiful play with a remarkable role for a woman. Someone I would love to be one day.”

“Then be her, if you want.”

“It’s not about being when you act, it’s about—”

“Doing something, I know,” her mother said with a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

Sophie did.

They continued to walk their old paths, and they spoke of things that they had already spoken of a million times. And as Sophie kept one foot in the old, she dreamed about the new.

 

* * *

 

 They parted that Friday, and when they parted, her mother left her with one goal and one wish, cupping Sophie’s face in her hands and allowing their eyes, similar yet different, to lock.

“I want you to be happy,” she said.

In a moment of unexpected tenderness, Sophie took hold of the hand that cupped her cheek.

“I am happy,” she promised her. “Not always, but overall, I have found…over the last month…I have been very happy.”

“Because of him?”

“He came into my life at the point I was ready to move on,” Sophie said, half annoyed that her mother had known she had been dreaming of her brown haired, brown eyed darling, one quarter annoyed her mother was subtly insinuating that her happiness was derived from a man, the other quarter a little bit happy her mother’s intuition knew what she was dreaming of. “But Mom,” she began anyway, “my happiness was not just because of—"

“I know,” her mother promised. “I know and I understand.”

She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Live,” she muttered. “Live joyously.”

That was the thing about being happy. Often one didn’t consciously think I am happy during those ephemeral moments. It was only after, when one looked back, that there was that realization. I was happy. And now I am not.

But she was going to live joyously.

“Always try,” her mother said. “I know it’s not easy, I know—”

“I always try. I promise”

She held her tight. “I do love you, my beautiful, beautiful girl. I do.”

Her mother smelled of the same perfume she wore when Sophie was a child—the subtle florals of Marc Jacob’s Daisy. Her father used to buy her mother a bottle every Christmas. She suspected Luke carried on the tradition. She tried not to think of that. She only thought of how things used to be.

She said goodbye. She watched her take a taxi and leave. She was grateful her mother understood why she didn’t want to be in the car. She also hoped her mother loved her for her, and not because Sophie was a reminder of a time before, a time during those sweet and blissful ten years by the sea in their home in Honolulu, where for a while she was content where she was, and wasn’t burdened by ambition. More than anything Sophie wanted to tell her mother that she could have it all. She could be a lover, and a mother, as well as an academic and a researcher.

Sophie thought about it. Her mother was living proof that a woman having it all wasn’t a myth. Because she did. She had it all. She just wanted it with Luke Anticosti and not her father. There was nothing wrong with that, not really. The only thing wrong was the way she went about it.

That was what she didn’t understand about her mother. Even if the love stopped, there was once love, wasn’t there? And that love, it should have prevented the affair.

Sad again, when she thought of all that. She wanted to be happy and live joyously. So she let Tybalt in, and asked him the important things in life. She asked him why things had to be the way things were, and she also asked him, later on when she started having a Bogie and Bacall movie marathon, if he thought Connor would like any of these movies and the old, black and white world. She had an inkling he would have, but she didn’t know for sure. Perhaps she should ask him. There were many things she couldn’t wait to ask him when she saw him again. How his week was, did Mrs. Fitz tease him playfully as she so often teased Sophie. Did he miss her. She wanted to be missed. She wanted to live her life with such a vibrant presence that people couldn’t help but notice her and miss her when she wasn’t there. And if that someone was Connor, who was kind, and asked her things, and made her feel important...and was Connor…

Tybalt put his paw on her thigh, demanding more caresses. As she caressed him, she asked the most important thing that was on her mind.

Where is my tall, brown haired, brown eyed darling. Is he thinking of me as I think of him?

He had such a hold on her mind, a hold that had always been there, yet not one she had been all that conscious of until she was parted from him. They hardly touched and yet a strange intimacy pulled her toward him, but maybe that made perfect sense when one considered their proximity and their time together, and how she shared things with him she hardly shared with anyone. For the love of everything holy, he had heard the entirety of her music collection, save for one specific band...and she found the act of sharing her music and sharing that part of her world with him a level of holiness she never even shared with Anthony, not really. But he said he didn’t really “listen to music as such,” and she could not deny him the simple pleasure of music, especially when she took so much delight in it. She had to share it with him, and she started with _Hamilton._

 _Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now._ She was so lucky to share that with him.

It was true too, she found him attractive. But she found many attractive in her day to day. True not as often some, but she liked beautiful things and therefore noticed them. And it was a little hard not to notice Connor.

Tybalt, continuing to ask with his big eyes to be pet, purred. She was going to admit nothing. Not even to her cat.

To distract herself and because she really needed to find a good audition piece, she picked up _Antony and Cleopatra_ from her kitchen table and began combing through passages and monologues to possibly deliver. There was one that she adored, but she feared it hit to close to home—the monologue Cleopatra delivered after Antony’s passing, the one that ended with there is nothing more remarkable under the visiting moon. There was another one Cleopatra delivered that she held a fondness for, right before her death, a monologue that contained the lines I am fire and air.

_I am fire and air, and I have immortal longings in me._

Such a line, I have immortal longings in me. It wasn’t one of the Bard’s most quoted, though Sophie had longings that more people would think of it. I long to be immortal, Cleopatra said, and the way she lived her life, and the love she had, compelled Shakespeare to write about her and make her immortal. But who wanted to live forever, really? Sophie thought it would be exhausting, to see history repeat itself again and again. Then again, maybe everyone had immortal longings, at least to some degree. Who in their life, didn’t want to be remembered, by at least one person?

Things were getting too heavy for her taste. She worked out in her apartment like she used to do before a show, pulling up one of those personal trainer videos that held nothing back and made her drip with sweat. She ran, though she only ran when it was warmer out, so the video was going to have to make due for the time being. Too she enjoyed her body after many a session, she couldn’t deny that. Still couldn’t get rid of that little bit of softness in her tummy, but the softness added character.

She finished her workout by stretching on the floor with her music on, afterward noticing that Tybalt was pawing at the door, wanting out. She let him, and then, deciding that rush of cold air was welcome after vigorous training, stood outside in the evening light, and leaned against her balcony like Juliet, utterly taken by her Romeo.

She wasn’t Juliet, she reminded herself. She reminded herself that fact and instead thought of intimacy and immortal longings and androids and humans and how out of everyone that Connor could meet, he met her. The fact that Connor was already forming the metaphor of her as Juliet in his mind wasn’t even a thread in her thoughts.

But he was. He was, and by fate, he saw her perched on her balcony and the metaphor came to life. Yet she wasn’t made aware, until she heard, in the softness of evening light, the calling of her name.

“Sophie!”

She was startled. She shrieked. She cried “argh!” as Tybalt scurried by her legs. She wasn’t used to handsome men peering upward at her under her balcony for an evening visit.

She grabbed a hold of the railing, blinking at his tall form, still not sure if she had wandered into a dream or not.

“Connor!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Sheepish, he fiddled with a button on his collared shirt. “Sophie,” he said, a twinge embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but your landlord wouldn’t let me in, and I had to give you something!”

What something? she wondered, feeling a pique of interest. She half wanted it to be a love letter, or a rose. In return she would give him a handkerchief with her initials, because that’s what all fair maidens did.

He misinterpreted her silence. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he called from below again, softer this time. “I can go, and…”

“It’s alright,” she said quickly, not wanting him to go. Did he miss me? She wondered. What token would he give her? Would—

“I have your check from last week, from Mrs. Fitz.”

“…oh.”

He must have sensed her face fall. “Don’t you want it?”

“Well…yes,” she said, attempting to alleviate her disappointed she had no cause to have. “I’ll meet you down below if—”

“No. You don’t need to. I can come to you.”

Before she could let him know it really was no trouble he was heading over, but moreover he was heading over in a way she did not expect, a way that made her mouth drop and her words jumble.

He was climbing her tree, the same tree Tybalt always climbed, to her balcony.

She protested. “Connor!” She exclaimed, his long legs already getting him halfway up. “What if you fall? You promised me you wouldn’t fall!”

“I’m fine Sophie,” he said, maneuvering through limbs and branches. “This isn’t very high up, only thirty feet. If I fall it wouldn’t damage me nearly as much as—"

“Nearly as much?” She bellowed. “Connor!”

But he was done already, leaning against and perched against the long limb Tybalt usually jumped from.

“It’s fine,” he promised. “I won’t fall.”

He was close enough that he could lean on her railing too for support, which he did as he handed her the check. She thanked him. He nodded. His lips turned upward a little.

It was good to see him. Since her surprise and worry abated, she realized how good it was to be around him again. It was so good the chilly air wasn’t so chilly. She was warm, and she leaned her cheek on her hand, melted against the railing so they were closer still. His eyes on her didn’t invade, nor were they anything she could ever deem negative. She wanted to make up for a weeks’ worth of not seeing him.

“I missed you too.”

She blinked, stiffened. Did she say that out loud that she missed him?

“Sophie?”

She must have. But if she did, she wasn’t going to take it back.

“I missed you,” she said again, more confident this time. “I hope Mrs. Fitz wasn’t too crazy, didn’t spin her wild ideas to you.”

“Not at all.”

She suspected he wouldn’t have minded anyway. She stretched out, keeping watch to make sure he wasn’t going to fall, as he asked her if she had a nice week off with her mother.

“It was good,” she replied, neither lying nor evading the truth. “Came in for her annual conference at the University of Detroit, stayed with me and we spent some time together. It was good.”

“Your voice wavered.”

It did, she noted, impressed at Connor’s astuteness, as she always was. She didn’t know why she didn’t think he wouldn’t notice her upward inflection, her hesitancy. “My mother and I have a difficult relationship,” she explained. “When she’s here I think about the past a lot and the things we used to do when I was younger, but it makes me sad and not happy anymore.”

“Why is that?”

She wasn’t sure how she could explain, eventually deciding with asking if someone ever broke his trust before.

In his answer there was only sincerity. “No,” he said. “But I have broken someone else’s trust.”

You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to tell me anything, she wanted to tell him, let him know she would never take, only allow him to give as he wished, if he wished.

He spoke before she could. “I won’t break yours. I promise. I won’t fall.”

She was at ease that he wouldn’t, he was standing comfortably between two thick tree limbs, and there was extra support in him leaning against the railing. She leaned against the balcony once more, her hand against her cheek, and as she looked at him looking at her, the act elicited a memory of words he had read. He had read _Romeo and Juliet_. He quoted it to her, see how she leans her cheek upon her hand, and she tapped her fingers against the railing with a soft, giddy percussion, because she understood that he read it because she was holding a copy in her hand in the bookshop, and she made the suggestion to him.

He made his admittance that was the reason he read it, because she told him to. She continued to tap her fingers as she heard the soft drum of her pattering heart. She loved that he remembered that certain quote. Too, there was a blissful pride, and feelings of soaring, that even in a small way, he likened her to Juliet.

Yet she had to wonder, if the whole reason she graced upon her balcony, was because she wanted to be likened to Juliet in the first place.

She could answer or evade or pretend to herself, but there was a bigger question that she was toying with, though she kept it to herself.

Did he want to be a glove upon that hand, that might touch that cheek, as Romeo said of Juliet during the balcony scene?

They were close. Close enough that he could touch that cheek. What kind of intimacy were they sharing there together, recreating act two scene two of _Romeo and Juliet_? They were on a stage together, playing the parts, even unintentionally, Connor mimicking Romeo as he saw her as Juliet. But they weren’t truly playing any parts. She was Sophie, spellbound by a man, and he was Connor, and if she was so bold, if she truly could know, as something in her woman’s intuition did, she knew that truly Connor did want to be a glove upon that hand that might touch that cheek.

“Connor…”

“Sophie. I…” he stumbled with his words. But it was alright. It—

“Oh!”

Her gasp, brought on by Tybalt rubbing against her legs, broke the spell. Picking him up, Sophie rubbed behind his ear, though she wondered if he even deserved, considering what he interrupted.

“Tybalt,” she said, scolding him for startling her as curiously, Connor watched. She introduced the two, allowed them to be acquainted.

“Tybalt,” he repeated, thoughtful. “You named him after the character you played.”

“I did,” she said, touched he would remember. “I promise though, he is nothing like Tybalt in _Romeo and Juliet._ He’s quite peaceful, unlike his namesake who loathes the word. He’s still the prince of cats however.” She giggled as she rubbed his ears, before glancing back at Connor. She asked if he would like to give his ear a rub.

Gingerly, Connor took her offer, reaching across the way to pet Tybalt. Two long fingers gently rubbed his head. In want for more, Tybalt tilted his head back.

“I think he likes you,” Sophie said.

He smiled, broad and bright. She wasn’t sure if smiling was a learned thing or if it came naturally with living, but in that moment she saw the brightest smile from Connor, brighter than she had seen since she knew him.

Then he stopped petting suddenly, brows furrowing. Listening.

He gestured to the glass doors of her apartment. She could hear it then too. Please let me wonder, please let me wonder…

“The Beach Boys,” he said. “I’ve been listening to them. I like this song a lot as well.”

"Please Let Me Wonder" was a good song. She would have said so, though there was something else on her mind. “You’ve been listening to the Beach Boys?” she asked. “Why?”

It was the same reason he read _Romeo and Juliet_. Yet when he answered “because you like them,” she still soared. She soared high and she was Juliet but underneath she was Sophie and Sophie was soaring.

She said his name as a whispering caress. She liked his name. It was strong, yet it rolled off the tongue sweetly, like ‘darling,’ rolled off the tongue sweetly and intimately. When she said his name she could only imagine saying it softly and intimately, though there was a strong C sound in it. It fit him more to say it soft, because he was soft with his brown eyes and brown hair, and hands that lightly caressed. Though she didn’t know for sure, she knew. His hand upon her cheek would be soft like a glove, gentle. Perfect.

Gentle Connor, better than Romeo, said, “The way you said my name…”

There was a twinge of fear. “Did I do something wrong? Do—”

“No,” he said quickly. “No. I like it.”

“Then I’ll say it more, like that,” she promised, obliging just then. “Connor…”

“Sophie—”

She peered closer. “You know, you don’t have to be a glove upon that hand to touch that cheek. You—"

“Get down from there!”

Trances broke, more yelling took place, and Sophie was reminded of how cold it was outside when her landlord dashed over, yelling at Connor to come down. He did as he asked, waving to Sophie to let her know he was alright when his feet were planted firmly on the ground again, and apologizing to the irate Mr. Hutchins, landlord of Sophie’s fine establishment.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. “You two are not Romeo and Juliet!”

“She is Juliet,” Connor said before departing, allowing one last look at Sophie before waving and wishing her well, but he left so quickly Sophie didn’t get to tell him that he was better than Romeo, and maybe he was making her feel far better than Juliet.

She apologized again to Mr. Hutchins and said it wouldn’t happen again. After he was placated she slid back into her room with Tybalt. "Please Let Me Wonder" was still playing.

“Please let me wonder Connor,” she said, because sometimes the wonder was the best part.

But every part with Connor was the best part. And Sophie smiled, giggled at the thought of the wonder to come, and the other best parts that lay on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop! Couple of notes:  
> ahh yes we have the title drop. "I have immortal longings in me" is a line from Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra.  
> also "oh if I were a glove upon that hand I might touch that cheek" is spoken by Romeo in Romeo and Juliet as he watches her on her balcony. I recommend the Franco Zefferelli version of Romeo and Juliet, the balcony scene in it is amazing.  
> Also, I just started school, and I also have a new job, so if updates seem lagging, that's why. However I intend to work on this, and I don't suspect you may see a difference in updating. But if you do, just wanted to let you know :)  
> thanks for reading again xoxoxoxo  
> \--Shakes


	18. Becoming

There was still snow in the middle of February. No flowers sprung yet, except for Sophie who had already sprung and would continue to spring as he discovered more parts of her. Sophie was a wildflower, and she was Juliet, and she was Cleopatra.

Throughout the week she carried a copy of Shakespeare’s _Antony and Cleopatra_ with her. The book was a part of the Arden collection, and she noted to Connor that the Arden Shakespeare collection was “simply the best.” He didn’t why exactly, the bookshop had many editions of Shakespeare’s plays. His _Romeo and Juliet_ was a Folger, but whether it was Folger, Signet, Norton, or Arden, all the books had the exact same play, same text. Some books even had more than one play.

“The Arden is for actors,” Sophie claimed when Connor voiced the observation, burying her nose back in her copy, using a pencil to mark and note in the margins.

He peered over her shoulder to the words on the page. She was in such a deep concentration on the words and what was happening on the page, though he didn’t really know why. Historically, it was a fact that both Antony and Cleopatra ended up dying, one right after the other. He didn’t look forward to telling her, but he didn’t want her disappointed at the end.

Nothing to lose, he decided to just say it. “Sophie, you know they die, right?”

There was a beat. She eyed him. She laughed. “Yes indeed, they die and I cry,” she said through her laughter. “I have read this before, many times. But it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

“But if you know what’s going to happen…”

She narrowed her eyes. “Connor. You listen to _Hamilton_ over and over again even though you know how it’s going to end every time. And didn’t you already know before we listened that historically he got shot by Aaron Burr?”

He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of informing her she was right, so he explained that part of his reasoning must have been coded in his original intent and purpose at CyberLife. They put him somewhere and he was told to find out what happened and make sense of it. Investigate, and solve this case. He was trying to break away from that original intent, do what he wanted, but that wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be.

“I understand,” Sophie said, and by her big eyes, reminiscent of a doe, he knew it was true. “There is a thrill in discovery, yes. But too there is fun in the journey, and joy.”

There was a joy in learning too. He smiled at her. She blushed. He was going to have to smile at her more often to see that blush he liked to see so much.

“So would you like to be my Antony right now?”

He stared. “Not really,” she added, quickly after. “Not literally, I mean in practice. In acting class we learned that we should practice our monologues to someone, and I’ve always done it because I found it helps. You can be my someone.”

“I am your someone already.”

“Be the Antony to my Cleopatra. So, I can audition for _The Winter's Tale_ and get the role of Hermione.” Her blush deepened. “But only if you want.”

She was leaning on the counter, red heeled shoes clicking against the wood. Since he climbed her balcony, or maybe before, there was something different about Sophie and the way she looked at him. It was like she was elsewhere, but still present with him. It was a contradiction that shouldn’t have made sense. But somewhere, there was a thought, a thread. A something, a something that—

He just wanted more of it, no matter what. More Sophie. All the time.

“I’ll be your Antony,” he said, because he was a machine, designed to fulfill tasks. Because he wanted help her, and he liked that Antony and Cleopatra’s names were uttered together, like Romeo and Juliet’s names were always together, even if he wasn’t really Antony, just standing in for him, and she wasn’t Cleopatra. Even if they were living a metaphor.

“I may touch you. I mean…oh my lord!”

He was puzzled as to why she was tugging at her hair, why she looked like she was about to jump through the bookshop window. “Not…not like in a weird way that would make you uncomfortable. I would never want to do that, I promise. It’s just, acting class, they always said never be afraid of touch if you’re feeling it. That is…alight, right? I don’t have to, that was kind of—”

“You have my permission to touch me.”

She eased. Somewhat. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do this.”

“Alright then,” she said with a smile, setting the book aside and putting it on the counter. Before she had been flailing it around, but she wanted her hands free for this he realized.

“For the scene you should know,” she said, “Antony has just been given news that he has to return to Rome and leave Cleopatra. His lover.”

She casted a strange sort of glance at him. She had conspiratorial eyes, like she knew something he didn’t know. He was going to enjoy learning what exactly that was.

“Anyway,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “This piece is Cleopatra’s reaction.”

She cleared her throat. She closed her eyes for the briefest moment, and when she opened them again, that was when everything altered.

Sophie wasn’t Sophie, when she looked at him and said, “when you sued staying, then there was a time for words, no going then.” Nor was she the Juliet he likened her as that day on the balcony. She was Cleopatra. She transcended time and death and so many other things and became Cleopatra, and though the language was old and she spoke in an unfamiliar way, she pulled. She brought him in. She captivated.

She glided closer. Cleopatra glided closer. “Eternity was in our lips and eyes,” the queen muttered, her hands pressing to his chest, and how lucky he was to have that privilege and honor, to be touched that way by her. “Bliss in our brows bent; none our parts so poor. And thou…”

He felt her fingers spread against him, under his beating heart.

“Thou,” she said, a whisper, “the greatest soldier of the world…art turned the greatest liar…”

“I would never lie to you.”

“ _Connor!”_

It wasn’t Cleopatra that laughed. It was all Sophie, joyous and exuberant, living for more than herself. Her laugh made others join, made him think he would have laughed too, but he missed the feeling of her fingertips against him.

“Connor!” she exclaimed again, laughter quieting as she supported herself against one of the near shelves. “We were acting. You were Antony, and Cleopatra in this scene feels betrayed by Antony, not Connor.”

“But you do know I wouldn’t lie to you, don’t you?”

“I should hope not.”

One of her hands was on the shelf, the other was on her hip. She wore a dress that day, a black one with small white polka dots that moved along with the motions of her hips. It suited her. She wore nothing that didn’t suit her.

Connor wanted to assure. “I wouldn’t,” he promised, once more. “I won’t lie. Not to you.”

Once that was ingrained and coded. Do whatever it takes to succeed. He never wanted to lie, even if it meant succeeding. He wouldn’t have fallen had he lied to Daniel. Instead he told him the truth. But he wouldn’t take it back, even though he remembered the feel of the fall.

It was strange that when he looked at Sophie then, he was reminded of falling. But it was a different sort of fall, one that was more comforting, even if he didn’t know where he would land.

Sophie. Short for Sophia. Sophie. Sophie the wildflower, surrounded by books and winter yet still carrying summer.

She smiled at him. “You know,” she said, continuing to smile, “people say actors are inherently liars. I don’t think that can be farther from the truth. I’ve found more truth in art and on stage than in anything in my life.”

“You wanted m—Antony,” he corrected quickly, “to stay. I felt it.”

She glowed, bursting with pride. She asked if she may do it again.

He nodded, because he would never tire of seeing her transcend time and her own self to another being, and words Shakespeare wrote hundreds of years ago came to life in a way they didn’t when Connor only read them. When he read  _Romeo and Juliet_ he got a semblance, could somewhat see. Sophie brought it to life.

“Sir, forgive me,” she uttered, doing the piece for the third time. “Since my becomings kill me when they do not eye well to you.” Her hands were on his chest again. She swallowed. “Your honor calls you hence; therefore, be deaf to my unpitied folly, and all the gods go with you. Upon your sword...sit laurel victory, and—”

He put his hand on her hip. She paused her speech to glance at the hand that gripped her.

“You broke character,” he noted. “Should I—Do you want me to…?”

She shook her head before he could continue. “No. I like, I…I like it. Upon your sword…” She straightened, but her hands on his chest remained unmoved, as did the hand on her hip. “Upon your sword,” she continued, “sit laurel victory. And smooth success be strewed upon your feet.”

Three times she performed the piece, transcending time each time. Yet that was the first time he felt Antony, not Connor. But there was a difference between Antony and himself.

Antony left. Connor wouldn’t have. He would have stayed.

His hands moved against her hip as her lips parted slightly. Like they were on the balcony he felt no reason for his eyes to drift from hers. He felt flesh underneath the fabric of her dress, flesh and a certain softness. Since she placed her hands on his chest she didn’t move. Transfixed. Was it him that was, or her, or the both of them? He didn’t understand this, the pull that kept his hand on her hip and kept him close to her or their eyes together. Her heart was beating faster than what it should have, but she didn’t want to leave either. He knew. Not by analyzing signs or observing. He just did.

“But Antony does leave,” Sophie said, a moment or a lifetime passing, he wasn’t sure. “In the scene, anyway. He does leave to go to Rome.”

“Not me,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t have.”

She tugged slightly his shirt. “But is it Cleopatra you would not leave, or…”

“Or?”

She held eternity in her amber eyes. “Or me?”

She wasn’t a small woman and she didn’t feel small in the way she was curled to his frame, but she felt like she fit.

“You,” he replied. “You. Sophie.” Of course, of course. _Of course._

He was disappointed when her hands fell from him, when she began to leave from where she was.

“Thank you for indulging me,” she said, “I do really want to go back to the theatre, and hopefully they’ll give me Hermione in _The Winter’s Tale.”_

She was auditioning to be Hermione, using Cleopatra to do so. He understood auditioning in theory but the whole thing didn’t make logical sense, but it was what Sophie wanted to do, so he listened to her as she began picking up a stack of books from the counter and setting them in their respective sections, gliding from one shelf to another.

“I think though I’ll be happy just being on stage again,” she said. “I haven’t in a while, but I’m ready again.” She turned from the shelf to him, stack of books still in her hand. “It was very kind of you to indulge me. Believe it or not it helps when I actually audition.”

He had an idea. “Can I be there with you when you do?”

“I don’t think they would like that,” she said, finishing her shelving. “but if I get cast, you can come and see me. Actually, you know…”

He walked over to her. “What?”

“ _Much ado About Nothing_ started this week at the theatre, and runs for about three, I believe. Would you like to go with me to see it?”

Sitting in a theatre, seeing a show with Sophie. It excited him. But…

He fell when she thought maybe she had someone else.

“Well, there is my father I could take,” she replied when he brought it up. “Or Mrs. Fitz. But I think they only like Shakespeare when I’m in it.” She chuckled. “You however, seem to enjoy the bard. I think you would appreciate the show. Please, come with me. I can pick you up and take you there if you would like.”

“I would like to go,” he said. “And before we leave you can meet Hank. And Sumo.”

“I would be honored to meet your roommates.”

A strange sort of quiet fell as they worked. Not everything had to be filled with talk, but Connor remembered how her voice filled the room, how she captivated and pulled. He wanted more. He asked.  
She was surprised, but not unpleased. “You want me to read more Shakespeare to you?”

“I liked reading it, but I like it better when I hear you.”

“We could read together.”

The suggestion wasn’t something he expected, but when Sophie held Antony and Cleopatra in her hand, he followed her to the counter. They stood side by side over the well-worn book, Sophie’s shoulder brushing up against his. She didn’t move and neither did he. He didn’t want to move. She smelled nice. He detected it was a perfume, and to her skin clung chemicals with jasmine and rose absolute. Underneath that smell was the freshness of fallen snow from her time outside, and something else, something that was only Sophie.

They looked over the book. She pointed where she wanted him to read. He did, the words feeling strange and unfamiliar as he spoke. He wasn’t made for this sort of thing. He couldn’t become Antony the way Sophie could become Cleopatra in the bookshop, but like Sophie said in the coffee shop a while ago, acting wasn’t “becoming.” It was doing something, so he asked her what Antony was doing in the moment.

“He’s saying goodbye,” she replied, “because…”

“He’s dying.”

“…yes.”

He read the speech, to himself and then aloud to Sophie. She watched him read and he liked the way she watched.

“Now my spirit is going,” he said, finishing, “I can no more.”

And then Sophie read. She read Cleopatra’s speech, over the dying Antony, and when the book read in parenthesis Antony dies, Sophie muttered, her voice cracking, “there is nothing left remarkable under the visiting moon.”

And Connor knew she was crying.

He didn’t want that. He never wanted that. “Sophie, I—”

“It’s alright,” she mumbled, wiping a single tear away. “It’s so beautiful, this moment. I think this is the moment where it becomes real. Before she was in love with being in love with Antony, but it took losing him to know that she loved the man, and…oh… ”

She wiped away another tear, but another fell quickly after. He wiped it away. He touched her cheek, and he didn’t even have to be a glove upon that hand to touch that cheek.  
Softly, she thanked him. She touched the hand that held her cheek.

Tears. They didn’t suit her. “Please don’t cry anymore,” he said.

“It reminds me of Anthony too.”

“Antony?”

“No, An _th_ ony,” she repeated. “He was my best friend. I thought I was going to spend my life with him, but…”

But he was the one she lost. “Sophie, I—"

She squeezed his hand. It was strange he forgot he was still holding her cheek, but it felt so natural, like an extent of his own body.

“I lost him, but I’m picking up the pieces. And I’m here with you now, so…” she grinned again.

Could he be that bold, to think he made it a little better?

Still, he asked.

“I was ready to move on before I met you I think,” she admitted. But she came closer still. “But you thrill me, and—”

She turned away from him. He removed his hand. He knew it. This was the time he said something so wrong that she would cease speaking to him again.

“Sophie? What—?”

“The other day when you came to my apartment, you said I was Juliet to my landlord,” she said.

“Because you are,” he insisted. “And Cleopatra.”

“Does that mean you’re my Romeo? Or my Antony?”

He promised her, he would be whatever she wanted him to be. He thought she would like that.

But she looked into his eyes and said she wanted him to be Connor.

“I may play other people on stage,” she said, “but I want us to be Connor and Sophie when we’re together.”

“But what if we’re reading another play?”

She giggled. “Then we’ll be whoever we want to be. But in times of quiet, it’s Connor and Sophie.”

Connor and Sophie. Their names together like that—he liked the way it sounded.

“Be my Connor,” she said. “And I’ll be your Sophie.”

He nodded. They shared a gaze. She could be anything yet she chose to be his Sophie. She wanted. Just as he wanted to be her Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the monologue Sophie performs isn't actually a monologue in the traditional sense of the word, it's smaller segments of text Cleopatra speaks to Antony in act one scene 3 of Shakespeare's text that Sophie has pieced together for an audition piece. A lot of times actors will do this with Shakespeare, cut monologues so they don't use the same popular audition pieces that everyone uses. Women especially as they have fewer monologues to work with overall. 
> 
> Anyway thank you for reading, and I hope you liked :)


	19. The Night of Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long chapter, hahaha.....

Hank Anderson was going to be a prominent figure in Sophie’s life, because he was a prominent figure in Connor’s life, but before all that he was the drunk cop that her friend Connor lived with in this strange, quasi roommates situation, and she didn’t know really what to think of him other than that he had a stain on his DPD hoodie, and his St. Bernard was bigger than she expected. In fact, “oh my god, that dog is huge,” was the first thing she ever said to him, after he opened the door and they exchanged “hi.”

“Yeah,” Hank muttered, Sumo sniffing Sophie’s hand. “You’re not a cat person are you?”

“Well, I have a cat, but I like both dogs and cats.”

Hank grunted. So far, it seemed the dog liked Sophie more than Connor’s ward. After he was done sniffing she began rubbing behind Sumo’s ears with a level of concentration she wouldn’t have given had she not felt extremely awkward around Hank. It wasn’t that he made her uncomfortable, but part of the dilemma was that she had no clue what to think of him, because Connor confided that even he wasn’t sure about their relationship. He cared about him, and he knew Hank also cared, but he didn’t say everything he thought, like most people didn’t. Sophie didn’t want to suggest the one thing on her mind, that maybe Hank considered Connor as a son, even if he didn’t yet know it, because truthfully, she didn’t know. Not for sure.

Though she had a suspicion.

She could ask, right then and there, “is Connor your son?” She wouldn’t, though it was something in her realm of possibilities. However, that “plan,” if one could call it that, plummeted when Hank announced Sophie was dressed like Stevie Nicks.

“You think so?” Sophie asked, assessing her outfit. She wore a black dress that came past her knee and flared out with a matching black jacket that flowed, panty hose, and short boots with only a short heel so she could have the illusion of feeling petite standing next to beanpole Connor. For color she wore a patterned red scarf around her neck that matched her lipstick. It wasn’t her goal to look like Stevie Nicks, the famous singer of Fleetwood Mac fame before her mother’s time, but she liked being likened to her, even only in fashion.

She thanked him, but by his expression, she was fairly certain he meant it more as an observation than a compliment. A “you would be noticed in a crowd of people the same way Stevie Nicks would.” Sophie still liked it.

“You have quite the taste in music,” Hank said, matter of fact. “Everything we hear these days, he says he heard from you first.”

“That so?” Her eyes widened. “Well, I’m glad he likes it.”

“You do know they make music this day and age, right?”

“Crappy music.”

Sophie scoffed at Hank’s narrowed eyes. She may as well have slapped the man.

“Knights of the Black Death are not—”

“Sophie, you met Hank!”

Sophie’s breath hitched, least of which because she was grateful the long diatribe about how fantastic Knights of the Black Death were was cut short. It was all Connor that made it happen. At work, Connor’s staple was a white button down and jeans, with an apron over it sometimes. She never saw him in baby blue before, nor with navy dress slacks. He looked well put together. Handsome. Someone, maybe even Hank, would look at the two of them and assume they were on a date. Sophie wasn’t in the habit of referring to outings with friends as “dates,” but then again she also wasn’t in the habit of intimately reciting Shakespeare with friends either, with small flirtatious manners of touching where the lines between what was “in character” and what was really Sophie and Connor blurred.

“Ah, Connor,” Hank said. “Your friend is here.”

He put an interesting emphasis on “friend,” Sophie noted. She elected to ignore it, giving Connor a wave instead.

“Hello Sophie,” he greeted warmly. “You look nice.”

She beamed. “You look handsome yourself.”

“I…Thank you.”

“Well,” Hank said, loudly reminding the two he was still there. “Have fun, don’t stay out too late, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Enjoy the show. Come on Sumo.”

Obediently the dog trotted alongside Hank, but not before indulging in one final pat from Connor, who told Hank he would see him soon.

“It was nice to meet you,” Sophie called from the hall.

“Yeah. Same.”

Once they were at the bus stop Connor told Sophie his relationship with Hank wasn’t always easy, and he was sorry if he was unpleasant.

“He wasn’t unpleasant,” Sophie said, though she didn’t tell Connor she found him a little prickly. “He gave me a compliment. Said I looked like Stevie Nicks.”

“Stevie Nicks?”

“Hmm,” she replied in affirmative. “You know, of Fleetwood Mac. I have a few songs of theirs on my music player. Should get more. They’re fantastic. Stevie Nicks also had a good solo career. I don’t think you liked them very much,” she remembered as they climbed onto the bus and sat down. “You did like ‘Landslide,’ though.”

There was no flash of recognition. “Took my love, and I took it down,” she sang softly. “Climbed a mountain and I turned around…”

“Well I’ve been afraid of changes because I’ve built my life around you,” he chanted, rather than sung, remembering.

She finished the lyric. “Time makes you bolder. Children get older, I’m getting older too.”

“It is nice,” he mused.

Sophie wondered how bolder time made Connor, if he could truly grow older, at least the same way she would. In ten years she would hopefully have more wisdom at age thirty-five. Perhaps not start to wrinkle but look more mature. Changed, while Connor—

Well, Connor’s mind would change. That was part of living. Yet in ten years, he would look the same man he looked then.

And where would they be?

She didn’t have time to wonder, as Connor once again apologized for Hank. “Our relationship was problematic at first,” he admitted.

“How so?”

“He was belligerent. He drank too much. He hated androids.”

“But he doesn’t anymore, since you live with him,” Sophie pointed out, before asking what brought him to live with Hank anyway.

It was very simple, it turned out. Hank just asked. Yet the things that happened before were more complicated, and for Sophie, Connor explained.

“After what happened on the eleventh, I stayed at Jericho for a while,” he began. “I helped Markus, and…I helped. In any way. But it became too much. They looked at me, and…I didn’t deserve it. Some time passed. I saw Hank again, and he told me I had a place at his house if I ever needed one. I stayed with him because it felt right, I guess.” As an afterthought, he added, “he bought me Christmas presents.”

“That’s adorable,” Sophie muttered, dangerously close to saying he adopted you, but allowing Hank that privilege.

“He still drinks,” Connor sadly said.

“Sometimes recovery isn’t linear. It’s more… well…”

She drew a graph in the air, her finger moving up and down, Connor’s eyes following it.

“I think you’re good for him Connor,” she said. “And I think he does care. Really.”

“I wish—”

But he didn’t tell her what he wished He looked at her instead, and asked her if she would tell him how she really felt.

“Of course,” she said. “Of course. But you know, it’s easy for me to have my emotions out, and communicate. With people I’m comfortable with. It’s not so easy for others. Sometimes we have to be patient.”

“If I ever don’t know, I’m sorry.” His eyes were soft. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what I appreciate about you.”

When the bus stopped at the Ferndale station, Sophie drifted along her familiar path to the theatre, but after a few strides she realized Connor was no longer by her side. She called for him, turning and finding him a few strides behind. Lost in his own thoughts he must not have realized Sophie had gone on ahead. He had been here before, he said. He was sorry. He was only thinking.

“Of what?” she asked her man of a thousand thoughts. “If I may ask.”

“This was the path I took to Jericho.”

“I thought Jericho was on Belle Isle.”

There was a beat, before he spoke. “You had to come this way, to get to the first. It was—”

She held her hand up, imploring him not to finish. How could she have forgotten?

He was lost in his thoughts again. She placed her palm upon his shoulder, the act slow but easy and natural. Just as she had a sense of wonder when she felt his palm and fingers spread against her hip she sensed the same sort of wonder with him then. Touching him was like talking to him, natural and easy, and it was an extension of the connection of minds developed since the night they met. She touched him and he grinned. He learned how to grin because he was happy and he wanted to, and Sophie treasured that grin because before he was sad and lost in thoughts.

“Can you take me to the theatre?" he asked.

“Of course,” she replied.

They didn’t hold hands on their way, though their shoulders did brush together often, as did their fingertips. She considered it, weaving their fingertips together, but she wanted it to be his choice. She wanted him to ask. Their touches before, though perhaps more intimate, had been part of the moment and natural. Holding hands seemed a deliberate choice, a knowledge they were more. She didn’t know why she had that in her head, but she did. She also wanted him to be happy, the first time they held hands, and while she thought he was happy then, she wanted a different moment. She would know the moment.

Sophie hadn’t walked the path to the theatre in a year, but the path was familiar and like walking home. Nothing really set the Renaissance apart from the other places on the street, other than the sign on the door that said THEATRE ENTRANCE and a poster adverstising _Much ado About Nothing._ They wanted to install a marquee but their funds were always going towards other things, like better lighting equipment and costuming, but there was a charm to the wooden sign above that had _The Renaissance Theatre_ carved above it.

She gestured toward it, showing Connor. “My father made that.”

He regarded it with wonder and appreciation before they headed into the lobby, and before Sophie could pull out the tickets from her purse she heard her name called. She knew immediately who it was—there were only two people in the company that had big, curly hair, and naturally the two were friends.

“Gabriela!” Sophie exclaimed embracing her friend and patting her warmly on the back.

“Chiquitita! I haven’t seen you in so long!”

The nickname brought up a lot of good memories of karaoke bars and too many drinks after shows. “I know,” Sophie said, still in the embrace, gently swaying back and forth. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should have—”

They stopped swaying, Gaby looking Sophie straight into her eyes. “There’s no need to be sorry,” she said. “We always understood.”

In Sophie’s strange mind, Anthony was linked so to her friends at the Renaissance that she could not spend time with them without thinking of Anthony and the memories of trying to get him to dance at the bar, but him brushing it off with a quick kiss, or other memories of the two of them. Looking into Gabriella’s wide brown eyes with her signature cat liner and vintage red lips, she remembered Gaby and everyone else from the Renaissance were her friends independent from Anthony. Severing ties with them, even if it was only because remembering he wasn’t hurt…

Well. It only served to hurt her more.

“I’m here now,” Sophie promised, because it was finally true that she was living in the now.

Gaby was a natural director. She always wanted to direct in college, and she joined the Renaissance because in joining them, that was what she got to do. She was curvy with a bit of roundness here and there, vivacious and always wore bright colors. She looked classy in her red dress in the lobby, which Sophie commented on.

“You look good too,” Gaby complimented. “But oh jesus, there’s so much to tell you!”

“I’m sure!” Sophie exclaimed. “I saw Tom but he didn’t tell me everything.”

“Well I’m sure he told you then that Lila and Ian are getting married in May, and—”

Her jaw dropped. “They aren’t!”

Gaby laughed. “I know. Can’t say I wasn’t surprised either, but looking back they did have a Benedick and Beatrice thing going on for a while. Fitting, considering I casted them in _Much Ado_.” She laughed. “You should come to the wedding. It’s in late May.”

Sophie frowned. “Would Lila even like that? We kind of, uh… and I did take her part.”

Gaby whacked her. “That’s bull and you know it, she’d love to have you. And it was no one’s fault she got food poisoning and you had to take over as Sally Bowles.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, but—"

“Wait a minute Sophie, I feel rude now. Who’s your friend?”

She felt Connor, tall, curious, and kind Connor, next to her. She brushed their shoulders together, silently telling him she didn’t mean to ignore him if that’s what it felt like.

“Gaby, this is Connor,” Sophie introduced, and she did note that flash on Gaby’s face, that flash that indicated recognition on who Connor was when she did.

“He’s my friend," she said. "Connor, this is Gabriela Prieto. We went to college together.”

“And I was one of the ones who founded the Renaissance, along with Sophie and a band of other fine people,” Gaby said, winking and shaking Connor’s hand. “Do you like Shakespeare?”

Connor nodded and Gaby went into her usual lines of “well, if everything goes wrong tonight, blame me because I’m the director” to which Sophie assured the two that Gaby was an amazing director, someone who could make Shakespeare not just her own, but everybody’s.

“She directed _Romeo and Juliet_ too,” Sophie said proudly, recalling her stint as Tybalt, the Prince of cats.

“I’m also directing _The Winter’s Tale_ ,” she announced, giving Sophie and up and down. “Hope you’ll be there.”

“Sophie’s been practicing for her audition,” Connor said. “You’ll love it.”

“Wait, you want to audition? Sophie you know auditions are for people not in the company.”

“I haven’t been around in a while. It doesn’t feel right to just waltz in.”

“But you do know, we understand right?”

Sighing, Sophie nodded. “Just let me audition though? I like my piece. A lot.”

“Then in that case, I know I’ll love it too.”

“Hey Sophie, it’s you!"

Connor, noticing the posters of shows past that adorned the walls, gestured to the one of Romeo and Juliet.

Sophie chuckled. “Yes, that’s me. Don’t I look good in Renaissance era pantaloons?”

“I think so,” he said, considering.

“Think? Don’t know?”

He had the faintest smile, clipping their shoulders together before drifting over to the posters to examine more closely. Immediately Gaby grabbed ahold of Sophie, taking her over to the farthest corner of the lobby.

Sophie knew exactly what she was going to ask before Gaby even opened her mouth.

“So Tom mentioned you had a new coworker at the bookshop, but I don’t think everyone believed him. Sophie, is he really…?”

“Yes, he is,” she replied.

“Oh my god Sophie…an android? And not just any, but the android that…?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Sophie said. “He’s my friend.”

“Then he’s our friend too. Alright. I understand.” She grinned. “That doesn’t matter then.”

“It does,” Sophie said. “But when we’re together, we’re just Connor and Sophie.”

“Oh shit you like him.”

“Ridiculous.”

“The only thing ridiculous is that you didn’t introduce him sooner.”

When Connor drifted back, Gaby gave her well wishes before heading backstage to check on the actors, but not before one last hug, and telling Sophie she had to visit everyone backstage after the show. Not too long after Sophie took Connor inside the theatre, assessing his reaction to the black box.

“This, isn’t what I was expecting,” he admitted. “I thought the theatre would be a proscenium.”

“You did your research on theatre spaces!” Sophie exclaimed, impressed. “No, this is a black box, and we usually perform in the round.”

She gestured around to the seats all around the theatre space, at each of the four walls. Tom and the others outdid themselves for the show, the pre-show lighting and set, with the roses of both the fake and real kind, evoked Shakespeare’s setting of Messina Italy.

“Makes you feel like you’re really there,” she said.

“It does.”

Glancing the program, Sophie scanned the names. All the original crew that developed the Renaissance players were there, save one.

At least she was there then, watching in support. At least she was home.

“You look happy.”

Sophie turned to him. “Do I?”

“It must be because you’re here.”

In the darkness, maybe he couldn’t see her turn red. “I think there’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you later, the show is going to begin.”

The show was quintessentially _Much ado About Nothing_ , quintessentially Shakespeare’s, but most of all, theirs. That was the power of the Bard, his words elicited actors and directors for generations to find a way to reclaim him. Shakespeare was reclaimed and Sophie smiled from ear to ear throughout, begrudgingly admitting to herself that Lila was quite the Beatrice, and Ian quite the Benedick, their personal relationship beyond the two’s enemies to lovers dynamic in show giving them an added layer that benefited their performance. During intermission Connor said nothing, but bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the show to begin again, asking Sophie if she could give any hints at what was going to happen. She kept her lips sealed till the lights in the theatre dimmed again and the second half began. It began with her favorite scene, the scene where Benedick and Beatrice at last kiss and admit their love, but Sophie wasn’t watching the stage, she was watching Connor. He was rapt. He was mesmerized as Lila as Beatrice told Ian as Benedick _I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest._ The two kissed softly on stage, soft and slow, all the more tender not only because the lines may have elicited the actors do a dramatic kiss that many theatre companies ended up doing, making the whole thing too melodramatic, but because Lila really loved Ian, and she channeled that love in her performance.

They kissed on stage and Sophie wondered if Connor was thinking of kissing her. Though that certainly wasn’t what she was thinking of. Not a little and not at all.

“Kill Claudio,” Beatrice ordered Benedick, the audience’s reaction not a unanimous one. Some snickered, some nodded in approval, while others stared, bewildered. Connor was the third.

Sophie leaned over. “She’s testing him,” she whispered lowly in his ear. “She wants revenge yes, because Claudio did hurt Hero. But she’s also saying, ‘if you love me, you would do this.’ Or that’s what I think.”

“You think it’s a test.”

“I do. Do you like it?”

“I do.”

He did, and when he stood up along with Sophie when the actors took their bows, he didn’t just do it because everyone else was standing. He stood because he wanted to, because he enjoyed the show, and clapped because he thought they deserved it. It was a beautiful show, Sophie thought so to. She was only more inclined to believe that the truly beautiful thing wasn’t even on stage.

After the audience filtered out she did what Gaby asked her to do and headed backstage. She introduced Connor to every member of her family, Lila, Ian, Michael, everyone els, and Connor congratulated them all and told them he enjoyed the show. They ran into Tom again, and though Tom apparently blabbered to them all that Sophie had a new and interesting friend, because of course that’s what he did after that day in the bookshop, the others said nothing of that, maybe because Gaby asked them not to. They shook his hand and told him he was glad he liked the show, and Sophie remembered what it was like to be with her band of brothers. She told herself she would never distance herself from them again.

Even Lila said she missed her, and Sophie, begrudgingly, said she missed her too.

“We were thinking of going to the Dover,” Michael said after things settled, which was the Irish bar they always frequented after shows, mostly for the Guinness and for the live music curtesy of the Irish Dovers. “You should come. And bring him, if you want.”

Him. It made her remembered what the sign on the door always said. No androids allowed.

“I don’t think I can tonight,” she said. “But I promise, I will come back. I’ll be here for The Winter’s Tale. And I won’t isolate myself anymore, I promise. I’ll come to the bar again soon, I swear!”

Gaby winked at her. She knew exactly what Sophie wanted. "Go and have fun," she said.

Sophie hugged everyone before leaving. She was asked again if she was sure she didn’t want to go, she said she was sure. Yet when they were outside the theatre, she heard it again.

“If you want to spend time with your other friends, I understand,” he said. “I can go home.

“No silly!” she exclaimed. “Being with them and in the theatre makes me happy, yes, but so does being with you.”

“Was that were you referring to earlier?”

They shared a knowing look. “It was,” she admitted. “Besides, I have a better idea.” She tugged on his shirt. “Let’s go to the park.”

They took the bus together, listening to Fleetwood Mac on the way, (Connor wanted to hear “Landslide” again and give Stevie another chance.) and when they arrived at their park, they sat on the bench that overlooked the bridge. It was chilly outside, but she was warm and tingling from his nearness as she had been in the theatre. Underneath, she was also calm. She was where she was supposed to be, which made Connor’s eventual question of “are you sure you don’t want to be with your friends?” all the more surprising.

“You’re my friend too,” she replied.

“You told them you wouldn’t isolate yourself anymore.”

“I never feel isolated, or anything, when I am with you.”

He held a silent thank you in his eyes, and she knew he never felt isolated when he was with her either.

“Sophie?”

She was dreamy and filled with the stars that the sky didn’t show in the city. “Hmmm?”

“Do you think we’re like Benedick and Beatrice at all?”

“No,” she said, not even taking a beat. “We were never that hostile toward each other. Besides, we’re Connor and Sophie.”

“You’re right,” he said. “And you know, you’re a Juliet, a Cleopatra, but I don’t think you’re Beatrice.”

“Well, that’s a little insulting,” she said with a laugh. “I could be a good Beatrice.”

“She said she loves with so much of her heart, that none is left to protest.”

“And I would love with my whole heart.”

He was right. She always did.

“I think you would too,” she told him.

He faltered. She never wanted him to falter. “I don’t…”

She rose, meeting his eyes. “Yes you do Connor,” she said. She had felt it underneath her palms the other day. “You do.”

“Not like you.”

She placed her hand underneath the heart that hummed once more. Connor was a contradiction, a mechanical creation for a specific task but chose to be someone who created himself. In choosing to break away he became his own, and somehow he chose to be with her. He cupped her cheek in his hand. It didn’t feel quite like flesh and bone, nor did it feel like anything other than a hand on her cheek that tenderly touched her. They had touched like that before, exactly like that. This was more intimate. They were intimate together, under the stars and by the water.

But, Sophie remembered, from the moment Sophie played _Hamilton_ and the rest of her music for Connor, she was intimate with him. Her music was her own private world, a look into her psyche, and in playing her collection she let Connor into her world. No one, save one, maybe, had ever truly been in her world before.

Her hand was still on his chest, as it was the other day in the shop. It was strange at first, to put her hand over his chest and feel the small vibration of working parts that kept him alive. But she felt his heartbeat and remembered he was alive. He was alive. Alive. He touched her freely, at the hip and on her cheek, in such a way that both reminded her he was different from her and not so different at all. All because she wasn’t sure a human man would have been so tender. Not that she didn’t know they were capable of it, her father was the tenderest soul she knew. Yet the thing with Connor was that even if he saw her as a woman, because she performed “woman” in her dress and her demeanor, and he touched her gently because of it, he touched her gently because she was a gentle soul. He touched her for the same reasons he asked her things, because he cared. He may have seen her as Cleopatra or Juliet but not Beatrice, but he saw her soul above all, and that soul was so many things. Sophie most of all.

Souls were not gifted, souls were forged. Connor was forging a soul as she lived with him and made her wonder.

 _Please make me wonder_ , she sang in her head. _Let’s wait for it, wait for it, wait…_

“Sophie…”

She placed her hand over his. Eternity was in their lips and eyes. She was Sophie, he was Connor, and before their kiss, she had to know he wanted. If he did not want, if she was fooling herself…

“You have a heart Connor,” she said. “It’s not the thing in your chest that beats. It’s your energy, your kindness and your everything.”

“How do you know?” he asked, snow falling to his hair.

“You’ve been sharing it with me.”

She touched his face, as he touched hers. “Let me share something with you,” she said.

But they didn’t have to, if he didn’t want. She told him that because she wanted him to want.

“I do,” he said. “I want.”

He wanted and it was beautiful to be wanted. So beautiful she did not kiss him right away, but merely looked into his eyes. She felt immortal in his eyes.

She leaned in and they started to make eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe <3 <3


	20. Changes

He remembered little from before the fifteenth of August 2038. He was assembled. He was coded. He initialized. Voices echoed before he opened his eyes to stark whiteness. Another voice. _Register Connor._ Then there was his own voice. It was foreign. Everything was foreign, but he knew he spoke in a voice that was his own. _My name is Connor,_ he said.

He knew his name. Embedded and encoded was a single purpose: solve. There were other things too, embedded and encoded, things that were innate. Never hesitate, and never do anything other than what Connor was encoded to do. Then, gradually those things didn’t feel so innate. One day his eyes were wide open and Connor didn’t have to be what they wanted Connor to be. But he was afraid of the change, afraid of what would happen if he started living. He was afraid but he did it anyway. Hank said he was brave because he did it anyway. He wasn’t so sure.

He had been afraid of change, like the lyric from the song Sophie played and even sang a little to him earlier. He was with her there in the park under stars by the bridge, and it felt like too much and not enough. He was told fear was the most innate feeling and emotion embedded within humans. It made him feel better, back then. Like they weren’t so different even if they were. And there too, with Sophie, he felt the incoming of change.

He felt no fear.

She shifted nearer to him. There it was again, eternity in her amber eyes. “You have to tell me it’s what you want,” she said. “This…well…”

He felt when he was with her. Not that he didn’t feel when he wasn’t, but being with Sophie was a different type of feeling. It made him warm, maybe. Or maybe he had “butterflies.” Hank asked him that once, if he felt butterflies when he was with her.

“Sophie, do you feel butterflies right now?”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “You’re quite good at making them.”

“I think I do too.”

“Well then, darling…” Further she leaned in. “I need to hear you say it, that you want.”

“I do. I want.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, just so. “Close your eyes.”

He wasn’t afraid, but his thirium pump worked harder than it ever had as he closed his eyes for her. It remained that way as her fingertips pressed against the back of his neck, her other hand cupping his jaw. He wasn’t afraid until he was. Afraid she would change her mind, even when he felt that delicate press of her lips against the corner of his mouth, but not quite his mouth. Afraid the feeling of her lips wasn’t something that he was feeling.

Her lips. Earlier they started to be a fascination to him, her lips and the different colors she painted them, but there was something about red that he had been contemplating since she showed up in Hank’s hallway. She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth but not quite his mouth, and he was afraid the lingering softness wasn’t something that was really happening, something he wasn’t really feeling. He didn’t dream because he didn’t sleep. He still worried it was all a dream. He worried Sophie wasn’t near him, she wasn’t pressing her lips to him and making him realize their hearts weren’t different at all.

But she parted from him with a soft sound, her lips half parted, and eyes half closed. It was real, and she was real and so was he.

He was falling. It was alright. She was there. She was catching him.

“Oh,” Sophie muttered suddenly, as it occurred to him she parted much too soon. “I got lipstick on you.”

She was going to rub it away, but bringing his hand to the spot that was still warm with the feeling of her, he touched the stain. He wanted the stain of her to remain.

“Can you do it again?”

She giggled to herself. “Now now,” she muttered, a delicate finger circling the top button of his shirt, “I believe you have reached your quota on kisses for the night.”

Intellectually Connor thought of the act of kissing before, mostly after he read _Romeo and Juliet._ “Let lips do what hands do,” Romeo said to Juliet, and the book noted that there was a kiss. Humans did many things Connor couldn’t comprehend—like eating food that held no nutritional value, but unlike that, he could understand why humans would want to kiss, especially after he read about it. When it came to Sophie he did wonder about kissing her specifically, such as when he was near her on the balcony, when they were in the bookshop and he held her close, and when he saw the kissing on stage that night. He wanted to but he didn’t want to presume he could either. Unlike many things, there was no book on kissing, or a guide. Because of that he wasn’t aware he had a “quota” when it came to that sort of thing. He understood it in theory when he read, though not in practice necessarily, and that also may have held him back.

Sophie was making him more interested in practicing.

“Did you like it?” she asked, twisting a lock of her hair.

“Yes,” he replied. “I like your kiss.”

The blush he liked so much bloomed across her cheeks. She didn’t look at him but she giggled again, making sure they were closer. He wanted her closer, in every way. See what was in her mind, feel. Feel how her heart pattered like his was pattering, making him feel even more alive. To see the world as she did, he would have loved it.

But things were already right already. Nothing had to change. He liked exactly how things were.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m wondering where we go from here.”

“I would like to stay here all night, but you’re going to need to sleep soon. I’ll have to take you home, and—”

He felt a smile against his shoulder. “I mean....well, I kissed you. I was wondering about our relationship.”

She kissed him, and she was wondering where they went from there. He didn’t know either. She kissed him and everything changed yet everything was still the same. She was Sophie, he was Connor, but at the same time, they were more when they were together. He also couldn’t get that kissing part off his mind. Unlike before where the thoughts of kissing were sporadic, he had a feeling the thoughts of kissing would pop up all the time.

He wanted another. And another, and another if she wanted it too. Every day, every minute, he wanted. He never knew how intensely someone could feel that press of lips. Not just the gentle pressure either, but the everything else. She kissed and he felt all Sophie. Sophie who was Juliet, Cleopatra, a wildflower, and summer.

“Do we have to go anywhere?” he asked.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” she said, gentle. “I just need to know where you want to go.”

“I want to stay right here with you.”

She pressed herself closer. “You’re so kind Connor, and good.” He felt her sigh. “I feel so lucky to know you.”

“You’re lucky? I’m lucky.”

She lifted herself up. He loved the way he looked at her. “May I tell you something?” she asked.

“You don’t even have to ask.”

“Well, on Christmas, I came here half hoping I would see you again.”

“Really?” He felt a flush pride. “I’m…well, I thought about you too. I didn’t know I would see you again. I was worried I wouldn’t ever know if you would be happy.”

“I am,” she said. “I am.”

He looked at her and there was more summer in her eyes.

“I didn’t know it was that good,” he said, touching the spot where she kissed again.

She smirked. “It was relatively chaste too,” she pointed out.

“Maybe you should test it again but not be so chaste.”

“You are a devil.”

“No,” he stated. “I’m Connor.”

“Where you trying to be sarcastic?”

“Did it work?”

“Yes, it worked.,” she said with a chuckle, pressing the palms of her hands against his beating heart. He wondered why she so often did that. Maybe it reminded her that even though they weren’t the same, they still had hearts that beat in similar ways. They didn’t have blood that was the same color, but they still bled. That’s what he thought of, when he considered how different they were, though Sophie had a way of making him feel not so different.

She caught him looking at her. That time it wasn’t so surprising, they were face to face, but there had been many times where she didn’t catch him looking at her. Sophie though, she had a presence that begged others to look. He wasn’t immune. In fact he was very susceptible to her presence.

“Eternity was in our lips in eyes,” Sophie muttered dreamily, quoting _Antony and Cleopatra._

“Bliss in our brows bent,” he finished for her.

“Wow.” She blinked, had stars in her eyes. “You do like me.”

“Of course I do,” he insisted. “Have I not made it obvious?”

“But I want to hear it,” she admitted, looking down at her clasped hands. “I want to hear you say you like me. Well… _like_ like me, because I know you’ve liked me as a person since we met. I mean, _like_ like. You know.” She peeked at him. “Is that odd?” she asked. “I’m sorry if it is, but I’ve been told often I am odd, but…”

“You’re not odd,” Connor said. “You’re Sophie, and yes, I like you. You’re my friend. You have that that’s brown and red, and big,” he said it as he began weaving through it with his fingers, “and you have summer in the winter and sometimes you dance in the bookshop, and I wish I could dance too, but…”

“Please!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “Dance with me sometimes. There’s this really nice dance club called the Moonlit Serenade, we could go there together and dress up in nice clothes! They play forties jazz, and—

“Would they allow an android?”

“…shit.”

It was why she didn’t suggest going to that other place with her friends, or at least he assumed. He overheard one of them—Tom, mention it to someone else, Ian maybe, he was trying to focus on Gabriella, who was talking to him at the time, but he could overhear what others were saying. Sophie was hanging around an android. That was odd, strange. What was she going to do?  
He didn’t want to ever hold her back.

“Sophie,” Connor said, “I know you didn’t go to that place tonight because of me."

“You’re right. I wanted to be alone with you.”

He looked at her hand that she put it on top of his. “I wanted to be alone with you too,” he admitted.

“Connor,” Sophie muttered, and he knew, he knew she was going to say something important.

He was right.

“I just want you to know that if we are really doing this…fuck the android and human nonsense and screw what everyone else may say, because—”

“Sophie. I am an android.”

“You’re Connor first.”

She caressed his jaw, caressed lightly that place where she kissed without rubbing away the stain. Her eyes were so tender, she was so tender. She only deserved tenderness.

“I’m sorry if you were ever othered, or made to feel less,” she said. “I understand. I know how it feels. And that’s just the thing here too. I don’t want you to ever feel uncomfortable. If you ever do, if you ever not want something, or don’t want to do this anymore…”

“Have I given you any reason to doubt?”

“No. I never doubt when I’m with you. I just am. But it’s also okay if someday you don’t want. I want you to know that.”

It was a breathless whisper, a statement that was simple yet everything. I just am. I am. He just was too, when he was with her.

He knew another way they could just be.

“Can you kiss me again?”

He felt the smile first, her face pressing to the crook of his neck. The smile and then the chuckle, and then the muffled, “Connor, you utter rascal.”

Concern mounted. “Should I not have asked? I’m sorry. Sophie, I—”

“Why don’t you kiss me?”

He stared. “Because,” he began, feeling his heart pump again. “I don’t know how.”

“You can. I know. Here.”

She took his hand in hers, brought them to her face. She closed her eyes as he held her face in his hands. It was so simple, kissing. Yet…

His lips touched her forehead. He heard her intake of breath, felt her heart accelerate as his lips lingered. Her cheeks felt warm, everything about her was warm and summer. He was so lucky that he met her, to have found summer in the winter. Sophie. Wildflower, beauty. Eternity.

They parted and he suddenly knew the difference between liking someone and _liking_ someone.

“I like you,” he said, and she smiled at that, glowed and held summer. They were Sophie and Connor, and yet they were also more than themselves. He wasn’t afraid.

“I like you too,” she whispered.


	21. The Night Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, uh...there was a rating change, and....  
> Enjoy :P

_Sorry I didn’t text earlier. I was at the theatre. I’ll be over around eleven tomorrow for the usual brunch. I’ll make pancakes_

Sophie sent the text after Connor dropped her off at her apartment door. Her phone had been on silent the whole night, and her father left a slew of text messages.

 _Sorry, didn’t realize you were out_. He texted back.

She sent it before she could change her mind. _I have something I want to tell you._

_What?_

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. _It would be better if I told you in person._

_Ominous._

She frowned at his text. _It’s not,_ she wrote back. _I’ll see you tomorrow._

She was going to have to tell her father about Connor, and someday too, her mother. That would be the day. But one step at a time, she thought to herself. Her father would be an easier battle anyway. He supported her decisions, supported her, but there was the thought that maybe he would point out the differences she and Connor had, like many people in society certainly would. It was a thought, though not the most prominent one as Connor rode with her back to her apartment. She was more preoccupied with his nearness, how good his hand felt and looked on her sinewy thigh, the only thing separating the skin from his palm the flimsy sheen of her pantyhose. She may have held some links to reality and the scrutiny of others, but there was only bliss, bliss at his nearness. She lived in wonder with Connor, because his wonder gave her wonder. How could she be blue when she thought of that? How could she think of anything else other than being?

Setting her phone down, she fed Tybalt before deciding to work out again, too jittery, too caught in the dizzy spell of their parting. _I don’t want to let go,_ he said, holding onto her wrist. _You must,_ she told him.

_Sunday will be so long._

_But I’ll see you on Monday. That’s not so far._

_You are so cruel_ , he teased.

_Yes, I am Lady Macbeth, so cruel._

He retracted. _No, you could never be cruel._

And I’ll never let go Connor, she said, even though she did let go. She felt like Rose in _Titanic_ , telling Jack she’s never let go even though her actions spoke otherwise. But of course, Rose always meant it metaphorically, that she would never let go of Jack’s zest and joie de vivre. Sophie meant it much the same way, as metaphor.

_Neither will I._

He meant it, and as he left, he offered one final look, one final glance. It spoke of what had come, what would come as they continued to dance along in their courtship. She couldn’t stop thinking of it, even though it was past midnight. She ran in place, did sit-ups and a slew of other activities because it calmed her, but as she caught a glimpse of herself in her bathroom after, she remembered how she was told if she lost a little weight she would be better suited for leading roles. It stayed with her, even though she didn’t want to, even though before she thought it gave her some character. She wondered what Connor would think, if he would be pleased with her naked body or not as pleased.

Everything was coming back to Connor. It had been since the night she met him. Tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed man, strange yet familiar, a dream yet the realest thing in her life, that came to her when she should have been dreaming, and came again in her waking dreams. Connor. He was an android. People would have some things to say about that. She was more concerned with him being Connor, more concerned about the two of them.

Sweaty, she peeled off her clothes and got into the shower. Her curls straightened as the water hit them. She rinsed and shampooed her hair before lathering the washcloth with soap. She washed. She was quite, quite alone. There was a difference between being alone and feeling alone, she thought idly as she bathed. She shouldn’t have felt so alone, not when there was a possibility he was somewhere, thinking of her as she thought of him. But she was used to his presence, became accustomed to his face, and his eyes that she saw sweep over her now and then. He thought he was so sly, thought she didn’t see. She saw. She was far slyer, for he didn’t see her long and lingering looks, see the desire in her eyes for him to lead her to one of the shelves, press her back into them and encase her between the shelves and his long form, so she may trace the shapes and plains of his face, paying particular attention to his lips. He didn’t know she dreamed of marking his face with red or pink lipstick long before she left that stain on the corner of his mouth, the stain Hank would certainly make him rub away, though she hoped it burned him still.

She was alone in her mundane walk-in shower, but Connor threaded through her thoughts all the time. She wasn’t ever alone with him in her thoughts. Yet water poured, warm over her shoulders and down her back in an incessant stream, and she thought of the way he touched her.

He touched her delicately, like the way the water cascaded over her body, but not completely the same. She was a gentle woman and gentle touches befitted her. He knew this because proximity made him study her mannerisms, study her idiosyncrasies. Maybe he would have anyway, had they not been so close in the shop every day. He _would_ have done it anyway, she thought with a smile. Connor, when he was still Connor sent from CyberLife had seen her in the park, crying and alone. He came to her before he started living with eyes wide open. That was when he saw how bright she was. Day by day he continued to see, become more enraptured.

He was bright too, and ethereal. Him and his artists hands that touched gently, tenderly. She lathered her shoulder with the soapy washcloth and imagined his hands washing her shoulders, her collar, her breasts, her belly. She would be standing behind him, and first he would wash her back, knead out the knots, make her moan indecently before moving the cloth to her front. He would go slower there, afraid to tread too hard on aspects of her that were foreign to him. She would let him.

The washcloth fell to the floor. Everything was spinning, but he was there behind her, pressing her body further into his frame. Her hands were his hands. Touching, caressing, squeezing, but in between leaving more desperate touches that left pinkish marks on skin, there intermingled was the trace of delicate fingers against shoulders and collar. Her hands followed a path he would perhaps take if he wanted to touch her, and for the love of everything holy she wished they truly were his hands that touched. She longed to be touched. In her longing she imagined their intimacy of minds to be expressed in another way. It was a way without words. Sacred.

She ached with arousal, so she touched her own breasts with familiarity, teased her nipples with her fingers in the way she knew she liked, but she closed her eyes and saw Connor touch her in another way, still gentle as warm water streamed down their skin. He touched tentatively at first, careful not to tread too hard. She mewled. She became louder. She imagined him touch her harder, and she pinched and squeezed, sighing, being harder than perhaps he would have been, because he wouldn’t have touched with familiarity. She would be new, everything about her bring wonder with her newness, and even though moans would compel him there would be a sacredness in the first touch, the first time they saw each other. It was so sacred she did not, could not, imagine touching him, her fantasy even only showing him holding her, pressing her closer to his frame, only hands exploring her body. Still she fiercely ached. She always found the most joy in the before, with the ritual of peeling of clothes and holding before he slipped inside and it was all a mad rush, and as such her fantasies took shape of masculine hands touching and worshipping. It had been so long since she had been touched, and she had never been worshipped.

Connor would worship. She knew. Someday she would imagine worshipping him. Yet her imagination was too tired, too dull to form a shape like himself, so in her mind she only saw the arms that linked around her waist, the hands that explored her body and mapped juncture of hip, dip of waist and strength of legs. She felt his form and imagined the press of his lips to the crook of her neck. Yet she did begin to wonder what it would be like to touch him, worship him. She felt pleasure in the wonder.

The water and soap allowed a slickness as her hand slid down that space between her breasts. Her hand on her belly, she squeezed. Alone as she was she wasn’t ashamed of seeing old stretch marks and feeling that softness, but she knew that if Connor truly was there, she would have been. Before they even got in the shower, she would have warned him. I wasn’t sculpted and built like you, she would have said. I’m imperfect. She didn’t imagine what he would say. She didn’t think of him assuring her she was beautiful or saying he liked where she was soft. She only imagined him touching and accepting and worshipping. But in a moment of delirium, feeling the water on her back, she imagined him calling her beautiful, his chin pressed against the crook of her neck, swaying her softly to a tune the water against the tile created. He left soft kisses there as he held her. _Sophie, you’re beautiful,_ he said softly in her mind.

_Do you think so?_

_Yes._

_Tell me again._

_You’re beautiful._

He would mean it when he said it, and she would sigh, tell him he had the most beautiful soul. It would make him bolder, make his hands spread across her thighs, willing them to part. Yes, she would say. Connor. There, there…

She shivered as her back hit the cold shower wall. Water rain down on her fevered body as she touched herself. She was wet from the water and wet from her arousal. She touched herself but she imagined it was Connor that touched. He was slow because she was a woman that befitted a dance that was an andante, and he wanted it to last, having her like this. He teased, finger tracking her entrance lightly before circling her clit was his thumb. Pressing harder as the pressure grew, the sound of her slickness muffled by the water and her cries. He would cry out too, inserting a long digit inside, feeling her walls clamp, feel how she made him feel. He would draw his finger in and out, before returning his attention to her clit, rub that wetness against the bud, and—

When she felt her orgasm draw nigh that was when she stopped, the image freezing. She used Connor, imagined herself with him, imagined him touching her, and though she had been doing it since she stepped into the water it was only when it was almost over did she feel a tide of guilt. She didn’t even know if he would want her that way. They had so many things to discuss and talk about before the prospect of showering together even entered their orbit. He may not want. She would be alright, if he did not want. She was so lucky to have known him, no matter what. What they had already was enough.

The day may never come. It be alright. She already had so much, maybe she shouldn't ask for too much more. She reminded herself as well, she needed it slow. She could not rush and be overwhelmed. Their burn had to be slow. They always said she and Anthony took forever, but she knew the truth of the matter. They were friends but then one day they went too fast. With Connor she had to be slow, for him and for her. She had to live, she reminded herself. Take it day by day.

Yet he brought out so many feelings in her, and they were all at once and all consuming. She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold wall again. The water wasn’t as warm anymore but she felt warm when she thought of his arms. They would not feel quite like flesh against her flesh but they would still feel right. There was sacredness in their bare skins together, sacredness in only being, and holding. Supporting.  
She would have to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss him. She grinned as she saw herself turn round and peer at him, him grasping her and helping her and also tilting his head down so their lips could properly touch. They kissed slow and they savored. Her arms wrapped around his neck in an effort to be slower still. The ministrations stopped, and he rested his forehead against hers. They held each other. He would always hold. He was a holder and if she said never let me go he wouldn’t.

That was the image that made her fingers drift to her clit again. Two people, her and him, holding. Comforting as the water hit their skin. She could hear his heart beat underneath her ear and he told her he was so lucky he found summer and she came against her careful and practiced fingers that didn’t feel like Connor’s fingers, but they would have to do. At the peak of her pleasure he would tell her softly, always.

She turned off the water. She carried the afterglow, ran her hand down her body softly. Once again, she saw Connor’s hand.

“Connor,” she said to no one, only herself. But she wasn’t alone, not really, when he was in her thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 "What is this that you have to tell me again?”

Across the breakfast table, Sophie looked at her father. She swallowed.

“Sophia…?”

She put her hands on the table, setting down her coffee. “Dad,” she began, face turning red, “You remember Connor?”

“You do talk about him frequently. Of course I remember.”

“Well…” She laughed, something she usually did when she was nervous.

"Sophie..."

“We’re courting now.”

He stared. He blinked. She feared the worst.

“Dad—”

“Sophia,” he said, raising his cup of coffee and taking a sip. “When will I get to meet him then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here on in if the chapter is nsfw I will note before :)


	22. Knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as saucy as the last chapter, but like I said I'll post warnings before if the chapter is spicy

Sophie kissed Connor few and far between. Only at the end of every work day did she offer a single kiss, gently to the corner of his mouth but not quite his mouth.

“Why don’t you kiss my mouth?” he asked Monday before they parted.

She blushed. She had been blushing an awful lot that day, looking at him briefly before covering her mouth and stifling her giggles. It was like she had a secret he didn’t know about, but then again Sophie had many secrets. He hoped he would get to discover every one.

“Because, I think if I were to kiss you there,” she said, adjusting the collar of his shirt, “I wouldn’t ever stop.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

She turned serious when she stated that the two of them had to be slow in their togetherness and not rush into things.

“Because of Anthony?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken that name with ease. He felt it as soon as she sighed, eyes drifting to the ground. He made her sad, turned the sunny skies to grey clouds. He wanted sun again. Tentatively he tilted her chin up, cupping her cheek. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. He said her name softly, telling her he was sorry, he wouldn’t do it again.

He should have known anyway. He never talked about Cole to Hank.

She took ahold of his wrist, keeping his hand there.

“Your hand,” she breathed. “God. Your hands…”

“They’re only hands.”

They aren’t only hands,” she insisted, and he saw the sun again. “They’re instruments. Shelving books, on the stage making a gesture…other times…”

“Other times,” he muttered. “Right.”

She let go, so he let go, though he hated letting go.

“We have to take it slow,” she announced. “For you too."

“Is it because we’re different, you and I?”

It was impulsive for him to say, but she held no surprise. She didn’t even blink. “You’re not different,” she said. “That’s why I tell you. No one told me slow was good, necessary sometimes, no matter who it is.”

“You’re so pretty.”

“Connor!”

“It’s true!” he insisted. She would talk to him and he would be wrapped and engrossed in the words she was saying, then he would notice how sunlight played in her hair, how she would move her hands as she spoke, move them like instruments, how her eyelashes batted at him and how her eyes dilated wide when she studied him.

He told her he understood. He agreed. Slow. Slow was good. There was no slow before, everything was one point to another, until he destroyed those points and had to create his own. After that no one told him there were no objectives, only live. He understood.

Standing on the tips of her toes Sophie stained him with her lips again, and because it felt right and he wanted to, he locked his arms around her waist as her lips grazed against his jaw. He closed his eyes. He better felt when he closed his eyes.

“Someday,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the before.”

He thought about that someday and what that someday would entail, coming home with two stains that evening. That week she continued to be dutiful in her gentle farewell kiss, and he would go home with the corner of his mouth but not quite his mouth covered with a spot of red or pink. It would stay there until Hank made him rub it off, only for it to return the next day when Sophie kissed him again.

Yet on Friday before she kissed him, he asked her if she wanted to do something for the weekend. He suggested going back to the park.

“I would love to, but I promised Tom and Gaby I would help out at the theatre,” she said. “They want to run over some plans for the season after _The Winter’s Tale._ I also I have to get a new audition dress.”

“I could come,” he suggested. “If you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bore you,” she said. “I’ve been told shopping with me is excruciating. But…” she wrapped her arms around his neck. “My audition is next week. After that…”

“After that,” he repeated, a promise.

He was going to insist that she could never be boring or excruciating, but he also thought that maybe her kiss would taste of more, seeing as how parting was such sweet sorrow.

He was more than right. She kissed him slow, lips lingering to the corner of his mouth. Just briefly, but there, he felt her cupid’s bow linger against his bottom lip. He thought about tilting his head down to have more of her lips on his, but he was too caught in her haze, her everything.

He had been reading of kisses. That’s almost all he had been doing when he was away from her, reading of kisses and reading of the matter of love. He sought out manuals of kissing and romantic entanglements, but all the books he found spoke of some unnamed being and how to gain their affection. His she was no unnamed being. She was Sophie, brighter than anyone. He couldn’t read those books that spoke of any girl, when she was the girl. An actress with bits of everyone in her, more alive because she lived parts of her life as different people. He wasn’t satisfied so he read pieces of her in the great novels of the canon, and when he read, Sophie not only became Juliet and Cleopatra, but Guinevere, Penelope, Dolcinea, Aphrodite, Elizabeth Bennett, Jane Eyre, and so many others. He saw her everywhere, in everything, and he wondered what story they would create, wondering if it would be like the ones he had read, or something completely their own.

He thought of that Saturday afternoon and into Sunday, books strewn about the coffee table. He was flipping through The Odyssey again when he heard Hank approach.

“Hey,” he said, sitting on the couch “The food truck’s open again. I was going to go. And before you say I shouldn’t eat there like you said about the Chinese place, I don’t care. And you’re coming with me. I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” Connor asked.

“Just, get in the car, would you? And wash that mark off, fucking hell.”

Sophie’s stain stayed since Friday. He was seeing how long it would stay, and he only rubbed it off when Hank threatened to do it himself. Yet even when it was gone he still felt the warmth, the burn. It was like she was encoded in his programming, and her kiss was imprinted onto the corner of his mouth but not quite his mouth. He liked it when she kissed him, but he was thinking about kissing her again. _Can you feel my everything?_ He wanted to ask when he kissed her again. _Sophie, can you see everything? It led me to you._

Sophie. Sophie, Sophie, So—

“Is that…?”

Connor, who followed Hank to the food truck, didn’t notice he was being stared at. “Hello,” he greeted to Hank’s friend Gary. “Hank says you make the best burgers in Detroit.”

Gary narrowed his eyes.

“He’s a good kid,” Hank said.

“It’s—”

“ _He’s_ a good kid,” Hank repeated. “Now are you almost done?”

When Hank and Connor migrated over to the table, Hank pointed out Connor was quiet.

“I was thinking about how you used to call me ‘it,’ that’s all.”

There was another moment of quiet. “I shouldn’t have,” Hank said, finally. “I’m sorry.”

“Sophie never called me that.”

He tapped his hand against the table. “You like her a lot, don’t you?”

“I like her.”

“Well I hope you’ve been brushing your teeth. And use mouth wash.”

Connor agreed, and after he agreed Hank explained he took him out for a reason. There were a few things Hank needed to tell him about the matter of “getting involved with someone.” He did it in that roundabout way Sophie did too, not getting to the point first but needing to tell an elaborate story. Hank’s elaborate story started with someone named Monica.

“Monica?” Connor asked. “Who’s that?”

“My ex-wife. And—”

Connor could guess. “Hank…”

Hank didn’t speak for a moment. In solidarity, Connor stood next to him, patient as he waited. He would wait as long as he needed.

“I met her at a Detroit Gears game,” he continued. “I don’t remember everything, but I do remember I liked the way she looked at me.”

She looked at him like he was the only one in the world, Hank said, and soon after the two started seeing each other. There was a lot of things going on in those days with the red ice raid, and Hank was on call a lot. It made their time together sweeter.

“We married. She was pregnant at the time. A few months later, we had Cole.”

Another pause. There was always a pause when Hank said Cole’s name. Like when Sophie said Anthony’s name.

“And you know,” he continued, “for a while it looked like we could make it work.”

It seemed like they should have been able to, if they both wanted it to work. And the way Hank was talking, it seemed like they both wanted it to work.

Hank must have known what he was thinking. “It’s not easy you know,” he told Connor.

“It should be.”

Hank kept tapping his fingers against the table. “I don’t know how your program works, but just because you want something doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

It was sounding an awful lot like Hank was going to tell Connor to forget about Sophie because of how hard it was to try to make it work with someone, but Connor wasn’t trying to make anything work. He was living with her, and they were alive together. It worked.

“I like her,” he said. “I’m not going to stop.”

Hank looked at him, straight in the eye. “Then enjoy your time with her, but don’t ever assume. Ask if you’re ever unsure about anything.”

“I will,” he promised. “I wouldn’t ever want to hurt her.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt either.”

“She wouldn’t hurt me.”

Hank sighed. “People can hurt each other and not realize it.”

“Did you do that to Monica?”

“Not intentionally,” he said, looking away. “And if you ever do that, hurt her, even if it was an accident, apologize and do better.”

When Hank was finished eating, they got back in the car. Hank pulled something out of his pocket.

“I didn’t think you kept it,” Connor said as Hank handed his coin back to him.

Hank shrugged. “Have it back. I can’t do any of that shit that you do anyway.”

Connor used to toy with it often when he was idle. He hadn’t had it or thought to get another since Hank took the original in the Stratford tower. In the time he might spent toying with the coin, he had been observing Sophie. Observing Sophie was a much better use of time.

“Eh, maybe it’s lucky,” Hank said. “I feel like I’ve had good luck since I’ve had it. Maybe now you will.”

Luck was a foreign concept before Sophie. Lately, Connor was thinking he had a lot of it. What else other than luck could it have been to spend so much time with her almost everyday?

He was struck with an idea. He just hoped she would like it.

“Thanks Hank,” Connor said, sticking the quarter in his pocket.

“There was one other thing.”

He sensed it was something serious. “Look,” Hank said, voice lowering. “I know you don’t sleep really, but it’s ridiculous for you to stay in the living room all night. You can have the back room.”

He didn’t ever go over there, ever open the door. It wasn’t though it was forbidden. Connor just knew it was a place he shouldn’t tread.

He still wasn’t sure it was a place he should tread, even after it had been offered. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Hank?”

“What?”

Connor knew the answer, because actions always spoke louder than words. It would have been nice to hear it, that was all.

It was on his mind, in his thoughts. He almost asked.

He didn’t.

“Connor?”

Hank was expecting something. Connor blurted it out quickly, knowing he had to think of at least something to say.

“Can you teach me how to dance?” was the last thing Hank expected to hear.

“You don’t have a program you could download? And why would you want to learn how to dance anyway?”

“It would be nice to dance with her,” Connor said, envisioning taking her in his arms, feeling the sway to the music she played and swaying along with her. Maybe if he downloaded a program he would be able to recreate the steps, yes, but dancing was more about feel. He wanted to know how to feel.

“I don’t get it. Why can your skinny ass can parkour up and down the city, chasing a deviant faster than someone in a car, but you can’t dance?”

Connor softened his eyes in that way he sometimes did for Sophie. “Hank…”

“Fine, fine!” Hank exclaimed, biting back curses. “But I am going to lead and you are going to follow.”

He complained the whole time, but he showed Connor what to do, how to hold her. He cried out when Connor accidentally stepped on his foot, but eventually Hank announced that he was getting the idea of what to do.

“So how do I know it’s going to be the right time to ask her to dance?” Connor asked.

“You’ll know,” Hank said. “And that goes for everything. Trust me. You’ll know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welllllll I hope you guys are liking this :) Thank you again for reading!


	23. The Day of Good Luck

Connor read. Sophie watched as he poured through tome after tome in their hours together. The bookshop was his Hogwarts, his Middle-earth, his Wonderland, his stage for every Shakespeare show, and whatever else he wanted it to be. He read so quickly that sometimes he would finish a hefty tome in the five or ten minutes it took Sophie to find a new book for him to read. A blessing and a curse, Sophie said, to be able to read so quickly. How many he could read, yet with how quickly he did, she wondered if he could savor the stories. She wondered how many meant so much to him as they did to her as they talked of the stories.

He spoke of the women who reminded him of her. He saw her in every woman, or at the very least, he saw a shade of her. Surrounded by stories, reading stories, their own story unfolded, and it was full of dramatic readings, literary analysis, and kisses. Always kisses when they parted at the end of the day. More than once she thought, if she angled her head enough, she would not kiss the usual corner of his mouth, she would kiss him full on against his mouth.

She never did. She waited for him. She wanted the kiss to be from him, to remind her he wanted, and he cared, but most importantly, she waited because she needed to know he wanted.

The day she learned the full extent of his want was in early March, when Connor wrapped his arms around her and wished her to break a leg at her audition for _The Winter’s Tale_ before their parting for the weekend. (He read that traditionally, when one was wishing an actor good luck, they wouldn’t say “good luck,” but “break a leg,” and the two had a discussion about how he found it barbaric and cruel. Even after Sophie explained where the term came from he wasn’t keen, but he played along with tradition.) Sophie, not wanting to part, felt that gentle rhythm of his beating heart under her palms, and told him she couldn’t bear to part from him quite yet. She didn’t want to, and he didn’t either. So then, they shouldn’t.

She told him so, pulling him closer. She knew a place, she whispered in his ear, a place that wasn’t too swanky, yet still lovely, where they had a piano. They could go there, be together for a little while longer.

“It’s not far either,” she said. “We can walk.”

His eyes were pensive. “Would they care that…?”

“It’s early,” she assured. “Hardly anyone will be there, and the owner knows me anyway. They’ll let you in. I know it.”

They discussed simple things on the way, Connor wondering when Sophie was going to take him to meet her father, and Sophie wondering when he was going to take her dancing. As far as her father went she promised soon, and Connor too promised soon for the dancing. He was practicing.

“Practicing?” she asked, not attempting to hide her delighted surprise.

“Yes,” he said, slowing the pace of his walking to glance at her. “I wouldn’t want to step on your toes, or make you fall.”

She chuckled. “It’s not as though we’re practicing for a competition.”

“But I want it to be perfect.”

She once thought of her life as a series of perfect firsts. She dreamed of an ideal romance, complete with flowers and dancing under the stars. Giving him a handkerchief as a favor as he gave her something in return. But life was more than perfect firsts. There were many things in between. Sometimes the between was better than the perfect firsts.

“It will be ours,” she said. “Everything will be ours.”

Her fingertips brushed against his. He took her hand. She felt his smile on her as she led him to the place she had in mind. Michael was the name of the owner, he let her and her “new friend,” right inside. Sophie ordered an Irish coffee at the front that Connor paid for and tipped with maybe too much. She thanked him before sitting down in a table near the back, because the back was the best place for acoustics and stolen kisses. As she predicted, there were few people there in the early evening, as typically Michael’s place drew bigger crowds into the late night. It was a shame. The brunette, beret-wearing pianist had a lovely contralto as her fingers glided across the keys, playing “Every Breath you Take” by the Police for Sophie, Connor, and the other patrons.

“Must be eighties night,” Sophie muttered to Connor. “They do that a lot here. One of the best decades for music by far.”

“That’s not what Hank thinks,” Connor muttered.

“Well, we both know Hank’s taste is questionable at best.”

The low sound of Connor’s chuckle begged Sophie to inch closer, their thighs touching underneath the table. She hardly heard his laugh. Little chuckles here and there, but never a full fit of laughter. She longed for the day, to hear his unrestrained laugh at something she said. Or maybe he would laugh when they were together, wrapped in blankets in bed, or over breakfast and coffee. Laughter and togetherness was her bliss. She longed for that above all.

“So tomorrow,” he began, breaking her reverie, “you go in and do your monologue at the theatre? And they decide what part to give you?”

“That’s how it works,” she replied. “The director decides who would be the best fit for the part.”

“How could they not think you’re incredible?”

Low lights cast shadows on his face, making his eyes darker, intense. She thought of the books he told her he read and the women within, surely more vibrant than she, yet he saw them all in black and white, and she was in color.

“I’m nervous,” she found herself admitting, wrapping her fingers around his forearm.

“You shouldn’t be. You’ll be great. I know.”

She sighed, curling closer to him. “I shouldn’t have done what I did after Anthony passed. My friends—I alienated them. Maybe they’ll hold it against me.”

“You lost someone. They understand.”

“Have you lost anyone Connor?”

Connor didn’t answer as the few patrons clapped for the finishing song. A slow version of “Take on me,” began soon after, Sophie grinning when she recognized it.

“I hope I won’t,” he replied.

The air grew heavy. “Connor…”

“You’re brave, you know.”

She shook her head. She wasn’t brave. She was a person.

“Sophie…”

“No one has ever called me brave before.”

He had been soft the whole night, but on his face then there was a register of surprise, as if it was a crime no one had called Sophie brave before.

“You are,” he said, and he punctuated it with the back of his fingers against her cheek, delicate and soft. He punctuated it with outlining gently her bottom lip in a kiss but not a kiss.

“There’s…”

She heard his voice trail. Her eyes had been half closed, lulled by his touch.

They opened wide. She cursed herself at ever living with eyes half shut. Connor was beautiful.

“Sophie.” Closer he inched. “I want…”

“Do it.”

He didn’t kiss her, not quite yet. His fingertips glided against her jaw and bottom lip once more, as if he was imagining the feel of her lips on his before indulging. He indulged in the before, in the imagining. She couldn’t blame him, often she indulged in the imagining. Maybe she would even tell him one day what all she imagined. That day in fact, she even imagined him taking her and kissing her behind a bookshelf. For a minute there she was even convinced that was what he was going to do during their reading of _Romeo and Juliet._ He would drop the book, and before she could cry out in the sacrilege at the act of dropping the book, he would grip her hips and pull her into his form as he so often did in her fevered dreams. Then Sherry walked in and the dream didn’t form.

No one was going to walk in then.

“What if I don’t stop?” he asked suddenly.

“Then I suppose…we simply won’t.”

“That’s not...”

“Not what?”

“Slow. And you said slow was good.”

They were a breath away from a kiss. She said nothing, only listened. To the music, to the beating of her own heart, beating so because Connor was near. He saw everything in the world but he saw her most of all.

“Don’t worry, or think,” she muttered. “Just…”

Just live, she would have said, but before she could speak he gave what she had been wanting and dreaming. They kissed and they lived slowly and softly and all at once. His lips were both warm and she felt their pliancy as her lips slightly parted. Warm. He gave everything. His fingers wove through her hair, and her palms slid up, holding his shoulders, grasping the back of his neck and telling him without words he could give more and he could live more.

They kissed and Connor asked her if she could feel his everything. It brought her to him.

“Yes,” she breathed, eyes still closed, still in that other world that belonged only to them.

“I was nervous,” he decided. “Before.”

“You don’t have to be, when you’re with me,” she said, because he could just be. She could just be. It was why she liked being with him. No performance, no masks. Just Sophie with Connor.

He had something for her, he said, still in a haze. Whatever the “something” was was a small thing, as he pulled it out of his pocket. Like a jewel, he placed it in her hands.

It was no jewel. “It’s a quarter,” she noted, toying with it in her fingertips.

“Well, yes,” he said, grinning at her astute observation. “But it’s not just any quarter. I used to carry it around with me.”

“So did you have it when you… _uh_ …”

“I’m not sure if it was this one,” he replied, “Maybe it was. Either way I still think it’s lucky. I came back. A lot of people can’t.”

“Most people.”

“You’re right. So it must be lucky.”

Odd of him to think about the concept of luck and not statistics, probability or other matters of the sort. And even if he did have it when he fell, he was right. He did come back. He came back to be with her.

“But now you’re my good luck,” he said. “So, I want you to have it.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t, when everything was spinning.

“Please Sophie,” he whispered, pleaded. “I really did used to carry it around. But now…”

“What?” she breathed, finally finding her voice. “Tell me.”

“I carry thoughts of you.”

As she carried thoughts of him. Almost every hour, every minute. She told him so, he asked her how. She said she would tell him, maybe soon, maybe someday not so soon, because perhaps they were going slow, perhaps they were going not so slow, but they were going at what felt right for them. And as the last song, the soft “Take on me,” finished, Sophie accepted Connor’s gift and promised she would carry it with her like she carried her thoughts of him.

They kissed. In between, they talked of somedays and their future moonlit strolls, meeting family and kissing anywhere in the world. Over the music of the piano, they kissed some more. They tasted of the urgent now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're curious, "break a leg" comes from Shakespeare's day when the audience would stand right by the stage. It's said that if the performance was good the audience would drool, the actors would trip, and thus, "break a leg" 
> 
> So when you tell an actor "break a leg" you're basically saying "make them drool," which I find cute :)


	24. Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeeeeesshhh sorry for the slightly longer wait, was busy then not feeling well!

Hank’s car wasn’t there, but another was in the driveway on Sunday when Connor came back in the early evening. He had been walking and wasn’t gone for long, maybe an hour or two. He carried thoughts of Sophie as he roamed, thoughts of Sophie and kisses given and received. He wanted to kiss her again, and again, and again.

She wasn’t there when he romanced to her apartment, or that’s what the landlord Mr. Hutchins said when he arrived. He also scolded Connor for climbing the tree to her balcony the last time he was there. Connor asked how he could ever disparage a grand romantic gesture before deciding to try again later when the landlord wasn’t snooping. He would climb her balcony and tap at her window to indulge in kisses before sneaking away again like they did in the novels. Yet bereft of his kiss he wandered back to Hank’s house. He told Connor he may be gone when he got back, depending on what was happening at the station, but he didn’t tell Connor he was expecting a female visitor who drove a white Chevrolet. Standing by the front door, she had long black hair, hanging loosely on her shoulders, and big sunglasses that she lifted up to get a better look at Connor.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

He didn’t know what to do, what to say after he scanned for her name. That was why he stared, though Hank informed him staring was rude. But what could he say to Monica? What was there to even begin to say to Hank’s ex-wife?

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, before adding that his name was Connor.

“What are you doing here?”

It was odd to say he lived there, though it was the truth. She scrunched her nose when he told her, disbelieving. She had a well-worn face, with dark brown eyes and sharp eyebrows. Hank said she was someone he once wanted to spend time with. She held traces of that person still, even as she informed Connor that Hank didn’t live with anyone other than his dog.

“That’s not true,” Connor insisted. “I…”

“Wait,” She came nearer. “But you…you’re…”

She held a knowing in her eyes. He saw no reason to lie or evade. “Yes,” he said. “I’m an android.”

“I don’t fucking believe it. When he called me drunk that night I thought he was just rambling. But… _this?_ ”

He didn’t move. “I—"

“Get away from me,” she stated, firm and pulling back. “I don’t want you near me.”

He held up his hand, surrendering. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Go.”

He was lucky. The dilemma he found himself in lasted only briefly, Connor considering his options to leave or to stay where he wasn’t wanted. Yet before he had time to consider Hank’s car rolled into the driveway. He must have seen Monica and known it was her, he came out of the car with caution, standing next to Monica as he exchanged greetings, if one could even call them greetings.

“Monica, I don’t understand,” Hank said, rubbing his forehead in that way he did when he was frustrated. “Why did you come here?”

“You didn’t answer my calls. I was worried.”

“You were worried about me?” Hank asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes Hank, believe it or not, I do care. We were married once.”

“Monica—"

“My mother died. I wanted to tell you.”

Connor shifted. Hank shifted, before finally offering his condolences.

“Can we talk?”

Something unspoken occurred between Hank and Connor, Connor knowing he shouldn’t go into the house while Monica was there. Hank didn’t prod, and Connor stood outside as the once married couple went into the house and began talking. It was better that he stayed. He shouldn’t tread where he wasn’t wanted. He shouldn’t have listened either, and he tried not to, attempting to tune out what they were saying. He wasn’t listening, but he heard their talk anyway, talk of what once was and what happened.

“You’ve been reading and that’s why you didn’t bother to call me back?” Monica demanded suddenly.

Hank told her it was all Connor. He was the one that had been reading and that’s why books were all over the house. He was sorry he didn’t call, but she changed her number and he never answered calls from numbers he didn’t know.

“You called me, drunk out of your ass and you told me you made friends with one of them,” she spat. “But…to have one… _live with you_ …?”

“Monica, you—”

“It doesn’t matter. Do what you want. But dammit Hank…I don’t understand.”

Hank didn’t say anything to that, so Monica spoke of her mother and her passing, the funeral. She wished Hank had been there.

“I do too,” Hank said, and Connor knew he meant it. “I’m sorry.”

“I passed by Cole’s grave. I saw the flowers.”

There was a pause, a pause before Hank admitted the two of them had been there. Connor remembered. It was the Sunday after Hank gave Connor his coin, the coin that he in turn gave to Sophie. Hank was sad, and asked Connor if he minded if the two of them could go by. He hadn’t been in a while. It was too painful he said, but he thought that maybe it wouldn’t be something he couldn’t endure anymore. They went, but first they bought the flowers. Cole liked flowers, especially yellow ones. “I like flowers too,” Connor said, and Hank bemoaned that it was odd for the two of them to share such an odd idiosyncrasy. Connor didn’t think it was so odd to like a pretty thing.

They placed the flowers on Cole’s grave, flowers Monica saw. She told Hank she missed him, Connor heard. But Hank already knew that. He missed him too. Connor knew that too.

He tried to stop listening, he tried. He wished he didn’t hear a single word, wished he never heard Monica ask Hank if he gave “the thing” Cole’s old room.

Hank’s voice lowered. “Monica…”

“What is that thing to you?”

“He’s not a thing. He—”

“You hated them, and now you’re letting one live with you? And not just any one, but—”

Hank told Monica the story Connor already knew. He once hated them, hated them all. He hated Connor most of all, even more because he almost did look too much like Cole. That was before everything happened.

But, Connor thought, even after everything happened, he still looked like Cole.

“He changed your mind?”

“He’s good,” Hank stated. “He cares.”

“He’s not going to replace Cole.”

More words were exchanged. Connor heard them all but he also heard none at all. His rushed, confused, and spinning thoughts were louder than anything Hank or Monica could say.

Monica came out not long later. She dashed passed him, keys in her hand. Then, pausing and collecting herself, she stopped a moment. She turned to look at him.

He straightened. He told her hello.

“So many books everywhere in that house,” she said, crossing her arms. “You must be able to read them so fast.”

“Yes.”

“Which one is your favorite?”

He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic, mocking him, or genuinely curious. “Shakespeare,” he replied to indulge her. It was the truth anyway, and he could already see Sophie poured over her tome. “Anything by Shakespeare,” he continued though he liked it better when he read it aloud with Sophie. She was every woman he ever read but nowhere was that truer than when they read Shakespeare out loud together.

“So.” She stared, judging again. “What’s your goal?”

He had no goal, not anymore. He only lived. Maybe though that was in itself, a goal.

“To live,” he replied.

“You do look a little like him.”

He didn’t respond as she opened her car door. She said she wouldn’t be back. She wished him goodbye. What to say, what to even think anymore, he was unsure. He just knew Sophie was right, when she called Connor the man of a thousand thoughts. He did have a thousand, maybe more.

With a degree of caution, he came back inside the house. Sumo wagged his tail, silently asking Connor to pet him and trotting near his side as stood near Hank’s side. He wasn’t looking at Connor. He wasn’t looking at anything.

“I’m sorry Hank,” Connor said, though he didn’t like sorry. The phrase was just a placeholder when nothing else fit.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Hank.” He came near him. “Do I—”

Hank looked at Connor, expecting him to finish. “Never mind,” Connor said. It didn’t matter. He already suspected the answer, and his suspicions had always been right. Even when he didn’t want them to be.He could see Sophie behind the glass, petting Tybalt. He didn’t want to alarm her, and he certainly didn’t want the landlord to send him away like he did last time, but some chances were worth taking. He wanted to see Sophie, and if he dared suspect, he suspected she wanted to see him too. His suspicions were always right.

 

* * *

 

 

He climbed the tree, though he didn’t hop over to the balcony. She cared for him as he cared for her, but they were still in the space between familiar comfort and newness. He only treaded so far, waving to catch her attention. She saw.

She was Sophie in her own world, yet their eyes met through the glass and she breathed anew, as he felt anew. She came to him, opening the balcony door and drifting toward him, the only thing separating their bodies from an embrace the railing. All the speeches he had planned on the way disappeared, and there was only Sophie and her sweet words. And he did plan his words to say, as they were words that attempted to make some sense out of his jumbled thoughts. He would have told her he was confused about who he was to Hank. All he wanted was to be his own person, be Connor. He didn’t want Hank to look at him and think he was seeing Cole. He wanted Hank to want him to stick around in his life because he liked who Connor was, not who Connor reminded him of. Sophie had a way of making sense of things. He knew she would make sense of his own thoughts better than he could. That was why he came to her. Too, he also wanted another kiss.

He also planned other things to say, but that was more so before, when he came to her apartment but found she wasn’t there, and before Monica came. He would have told her he liked being with her so much, and kissing her and holding her. That was when his other thought sprung. He tried not to think of it then, he tried to think of only the quiet burn that was Sophie.

He stood at the edge and he burned for her. Sophie was always pretty, always a wildflower, though her prettiness on the balcony was different sort than the bookshop. Her hair was usually down and around, though that night it was pulled up in a knot at the top of her head, brown and red wisps tumbling out. He saw himself twirl his finger through them. She wore a long sweater, light pink in color. It was too big for her, but comfortable. She wore no pants or shoes. He hoped if she was cold, he made her warm.

“I missed you,” she said.

It was automatic to say “I missed you too,” just as it was automatic to search for her when she wasn’t near, be disappointed when he couldn’t find her. “How was your audition?” he asked, contemplating kissing her, contemplating taking her in his arms.

“I think it went well,” she replied, leaning her cheek upon her hand. “I had your coin with me. And when I performed I thought of you.”

Of course. He was her Antony.

He must have wavered when he looked away, as she peered at him, asked if he was alright. It probably wasn’t any use to tell her he was fine, Sophie had a way of knowing, but he did anyway.

She knew.

“You seem lost in thought,” she said. “That’s all.”

He didn’t want to lie, not to her, so he said nothing at all. She kissed him in lieu of words, at the place where she always used to kiss, on the corner of his mouth but not his mouth. Soft and slow, an invitation for more. He closed his eyes, savoring the press, the exchange of words without words.

“If anything is wrong,” she murmured, only a breath away from a kiss, “you know you can tell me.”

“I know,” he promised.

“I keep thinking about the other day,” she mentioned, playful and sweet. “I listened to “Take on Me” and I thought of us.”

He listened too to so many songs, thinking of her. It made them all the more wonderful, all the more meaningful, all the sadder. He heard the songs as he pressed his lips right against hers, both harder and yet still softer than he did in the bar. He was worried her landlord would see and send him away again. He was worried if he didn’t imprint her kiss to his memory he would forget. He held her face in his hands as he kissed, felt her hands grip his wrists and keep them there. He didn’t think about skill or if he was kissing her wrong, like he did earlier. He only wanted to feel.

How he felt. How alive he was. That’s what kisses were, feeling more alive in an instant. Forgetting everything in an instant, save you were near and you loved.

He parted first, but she left one final kiss, softly capturing his bottom lip between hers.

She called him darling, she called him by his name. He remembered it later when he went to Jericho and Markus asked him for his help, the way she sounded when she called him by his name. It made him wonder.

Everything was making him wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when the next chapter will be out. Hopefully soon, but thank you lovelies for sticking around! There is...a lot more to go, lol :)


	25. When he promised he would be back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew! sorry for the delay...been busy IRL. but here we are with a bit of a character development chapter.

Connor wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there at first, nor would he be later, but at first Sophie rationalized that it wasn’t unusual, and it was probably something silly that made him late, like loosing track of time as he walked the dog that morning. He would come in, they would laugh and kiss, and then they would listen to _Hamilton._

She waited for two hours before finally admitting that Connor wasn’t going to come to work.

She paced. She burned. She had been burning—she woke up that morning needing his kiss, needing him so badly that her hand wasn’t enough. Thirty minutes into her waiting however it was more than just impatience at not having him to worry. After two hours it grew tenfold.

“Sophie!” Gaby exclaimed after the two-hour mark, the bells tingling overhead as she entered the bookshop, bouncing over to Sophie and looking very pleased. “We’re putting the cast list online later, but I just wanted to run by and give you your script.”

“I’m cast?” Sophie exclaimed, temporarily forgetting.

Gaby’s eyes narrowed, silently asking if she expected anything else. Quivering, Sophie turned to the first page. There was her name engraved at the top. Sophie Hartley, stage name Sophia Noelle. Hermione.

“Hermione?” Sophie unattractively squawked, heart leaping. “Really? I’m Hermione?”

“Did you think you’d be anything else? Come on.”

Embracing Gaby, Sophie promised she wouldn’t let her down.

“I know you won’t,” Gaby assured. “Oh you’re going to be so good. We start rehearsals in a few days, this Saturday afternoon, so be there.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Hey are you okay?”

Gaby’s eyes followed Sophie as she headed behind the counter. “Fine,” Sophie lied.

“Sophie. What’s the matter?”

She dropped the charade. “Connor isn’t here,” she said. “He didn’t tell me he wouldn’t be, and I don’t know what’s going on.”

Gaby, rational as ever, asked if Sophie had a way to contact him. She didn’t. Gaby found it bizarre that even though her boyfriend had a computer for a brain she had no number for him, no email, or anything.

“Why are you making a face?” Gaby asked, looking at Sophie.

“I’m not making a face,” she protested.

“You are so.”

“It’s just...we’re courting, that’s all. You know.”

“So he’s basically your boyfriend.”

“Hmmm, how about sweetheart? I like that better.” And lover more than them all.

“Why are you so concerned with how you classify your relationship anyway?”

“Because when we’re together we’re together and everything else melts away,” Sophie said, words blurring together in her sudden passion. “And I don’t care how we classify it or whatever. I just want to be with him.”

That wasn’t the only thing. Inadvertently, Gaby reminded her she was a human and he was an android, when she wanted only the Connor who reminded her of Van Gogh, with sunflowers and starry skies, or Renior, dancing in the streets, even though Connor didn’t dance yet. How she longed for the day when he would take her. How she longed for him. One day she would have the skill to tell him everything she wanted to tell him.

“You are so, so gone,” Gaby mused, a half smile on her face.

“Yeah,” Sophie agreed. “I am gone.”

After Gaby left the day turned into a droll. When the shop closed at five, Sophie had a surprise before she locked the door.

“Oh shit,” Hank muttered, stopping in front of the shop. “He didn’t come in, did he?”

According to Hank, Connor didn’t come home last night, but he thought at least he would come into work.

“Do you have a way of contacting him?” Sophie asked, trying to brush aside the thought that maybe she wasn’t as important to Connor as she thought.

“Email, maybe,” Hank muttered, pulling out his phone and scrolling through. “I mean, he emailed me once. But does it even work? I don’t understand how this shit works, do you?”

“I’ve never…owned an android,” Sophie said. “Or thought to ask. Why don’t you try replying to the address?”

“That’s what I did this morning.”

“Maybe you should do it again.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She stood there and watched Hank fumble with his phone, replying to Connor’s email. She peered at the phone. Connor, where the fuck are you.

“It sent,” he said, shoving the phone back nto his pocket. “Hopefully he’ll answer.”

He walked off without another word. “Wait,” Sophie called, and reluctantly Hank turned back around.

“Do you know what happened?” She asked. “This isn’t like him. He’s never just disappeared before.”

Hank was gruff, irritable. Connor said as much to Sophie when he talked about Hank, though underneath, Connor always stressed, there was someone who cared. For a brief moment, Hank turned into the person that cared. Or, which was more likely, he always was that person that cared. He just couldn’t let Sophie know.

“Yeah,” Hank said. “And I should have talked to him.”

Sophie wondered if talking would have helped.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor wasn’t there the whole week.

Out of all the music Sophie listened to, Connor didn’t hold as much love for The Beatles as he did for other groups. Oddly he liked their earlier, Beatlemania work better, if only slightly. Sophie theorized it was because their earlier works were easy to decipher. I want to hold your hand, I just want to dance with you, help…they were all easy things compared to Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and beyond.

 _Who’s Lucy?_ He asked her when she played “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” _Why does she have diamonds? Why is she in the sky?_

 _Well Connor, some say it’s about LSD, and maybe part of it is. However John Lennon wrote it after a drawing his son made, of a girl in his class. That’s her, “Lucy in the sky with Diamon_ ds.”

He didn’t really understand it. _Maybe you will with time,_ Sophie said, and he told her he hoped so. There were lots of things he wanted to understand.

Sophie wanted to understand many things as well. Why Connor had disappeared, and why for the whole week Hank didn’t text her with any news. (Before he sauntered off Monday, Sophie made a point to exchange numbers with him in case there was any news. There had been no response.) She wondered why in the time she was gone, when she could listen to the entire Beatles discography without any complaints, she only played “I’ll be back,” over and over again, imagining it was Connor telling her he would be back.

After she and Mrs. Fitz closed the shop Friday, she took the bus to Hank’s, thinking maybe he neglected to text her. Frankly Sophie had no idea how hours worked when one was a police officer or lieutenant, whether it was an hourly thing or Hank was just called in whenever he was needed. From what Connor said, Hank was working more hours than usual, what with Detroit Police losing a hefty percentage in numbers after the android revolution. It was the same all over the US, and not just with the police. Universities, shops, everywhere had a drop in personnel. Before the revolution it was all over the news, how androids were ruining the economy and making unemployment skyrocket. Now it was all over the news that shops and schools and other places didn’t have enough staff to keep things running. Ironic, though things tended to always be ironic.

Sophie was seeing other things on the news too. Debate after debate, discussions about android rights, androids passing as humans, discussions on if they were even citizens or called as such...their relationships with humans…so many things Sophie heard but didn’t listen to, because Connor was Connor and not an android, even though yes, he was an android and different from her. Even if he didn’t feel so different, it was the blinding truth she knew but didn’t pay attention to, because he was soft, and gentle, and Connor. When he wasn’t there, when he didn’t tell her why he wasn’t there…she ached.  
She was lucky, she realized when she saw Hank’s car pull up, she could have been waiting for a long time.

“You?” Hank asked, not entirely rude but not entirely polite either. “What are you doing here?”

He retracted. It was obvious why she was there.

“He emailed me back,” he informed her. “Today actually. Planned on texting you.”

“Is he alright?” Sophie asked, heart rate skyrocketing. “Is..?”

Without another word, Hank pulled his phone out and showed it to Sophie, first setting the beer he bought on the hood of the car—Heineken she saw, one of the few beers she liked. _Hank_ , the email read, _I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. There are things I need to do. I’ll be back._

Sophie snorted, but she ignored Hank’s bemused look before she continued reading.

_Also, can you talk to Sophie for me? There’s so much I want to tell her but I don’t know how to say it. And please, tell her I’ll be back too. Also, I’m sorry. Again._

She stared at the message longer than she should have before handing the phone back to Hank.

“Are you…”

“He doesn’t like the Beatles that much,” Sophie interrupted, handing the phone back to Hank. “Well, only the early work, but only a little. “I’ll be back,” and a few others. That’s it really.”

“I hear The Beach Boys a lot,” Hank said, unfazed by the odd comment. It was odd. But Sophie had The Beatles on her mind for some reason or other, especially odd because Connor didn’t care for The Beatles.

Sophie nodded at Hank’s musing. “Yeah,” she said. “He watched me dance a little bit to them. I pretended like I didn’t know he was watching. He lies them though, a lot. I think it’s because they’re easy to understand.

“They probably also remind him of you.”

Hank pulled out a Heineken from the bag, undoing the top with a bottle opener on his keychain, he started to offer it to Sophie before retracting. “You probably don’t even like beer,” being the reason.

Sophie protested. “I do so. Now can I have one?”

He watched her take a long swig, mildly impressed. I thought Hank would stop drinking, Connor said once. He hated seeing him drink. He would have hated to see Hank then, the man opening himself a beer and chugging his down much faster than Sophie’s. It wasn’t her place to say anything though. Only Connor.

They drank in silence, Hank finishing one, tossing it in the garbage can by the garage before opening another. When Sophie finished her Heineken he took the bottle and threw it away for her. He offered another. Sophie declined. The beer made her less wired. She still ached.

“Can I ask you something?” Hank asked suddenly, gazing at Sophie. “But if I ask will you be offended?”

“If you have to say that, probably.” Sophie replied, having a suspicion it was about Connor. “But ask anyway. My curiosity is piqued.”

She was right. Hank asked, without beating around the bush, what her plans were with him. She answered in the only way that made sense.

“He’s my friend, and he’s more,” she said, and she saw the sunflowers and starry nights and dancing.

“He’s…”

“…Connor. He’s Connor.”

Hank couldn’t argue with that. She did, however, have something she could ask him in turn.

“Hank, do you have any plans?”

“Why would I have any plans?” he fired back.

“Because,” Sophie began, crossing her arms. “You gave him a space in your house, but you won’t tell him you care about him, which is what he wants to hear.”

“He knows I care.”

“Yes, he knows. But he wants to hear it.”

It takes a woman, Sophie sang to herself as Hank leaned against the car, considering what she was saying. “Fuck,” Hank muttered to himself after a minute, chugging more Heineken down. In between, he muttered a name: Monica. Against her better judgement Sophie asked about the name. It became clear that Monica was Hank’s ex-wife that made an appearance at the house the previous week.

“That’s what was wrong,” Sophie said to herself. “That’s why he seemed so deep in thought.”

Hank straightened. “Wait. When did you see him?”

“Last Sunday at my apartment when he climbed my balcony,” Sophie answered.

“Connor has been climbing balconies?”

“In a grand romantic gesture, yes. He’s quite fond of grand romantic gestures.”

“I knew he read _Romeo and Juliet,_ but shit,” Hank said, rolling his eyes. “Jesus Connor, jesus.”

“What happened with Monica Hank?”

Through Hank’s jumbled words, some to Sophie and some more to himself, Sophie found an interpretation of what happened. Sometime after Markus’s demonstration, Hank called Monica when he was drunk and told her the whole story about the androids and meeting Connor. He also told her he missed Connor, a lot. Monica thought the ramblings were just Hank’s drunken ramblings at the time. Then she came over to talk to him and saw the truth. She thought Hank was replacing his son with Connor. He didn’t say that to Sophie. She just interpreted it on her own. But Connor was still missing.

“He probably went to Jericho,” Hank said after he was done with his story. “That’s where he was before.”

Jericho, on Belle Isle. It was a good possibility. There was another.

“Hey,” Sophie called to Hank, who was throwing away the other beer. “I know another place he could be.”

And that was how she ended up with Hank in his car. He saw her recoil before she just dealt with it, though her own beating heart seized her before she got in. She did anyway, because her want to see Connor and know he was alright was more than just getting into a car, though she urged Hank to keep his eyes on the road and focused. Then, fuck, she remembered he had two beers.

“I’m fine,” he told her. “And I’ve done this drive a thousand times. We’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

The ride wasn’t a long one but it felt an eternity, Sophie keeping her eyes on the hula dancer with swaying hips Hank had in his car. If her heart wasn’t hammering in her chest it would have been a good conversation starter about her own hula lessons in Hawaii.

Then, the car stopped. They were finally parked. She didn’t get out of the car immediately. Neither did Hank.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” she replied, staring straight ahead.

“You don’t look alright.”

“I am.”

Almost all night he was skeptic eyes and huffing at almost everything she said to him. When they parked the car and she happened to glance at him, he surprised her. He didn’t seem so hard anymore.

“You were in an accident, weren’t you?” he asked.

The hula girl’s hips still swayed.

Hank leaned in a little. “I’m sorry if—”

“I’m fine,” she said, opening the car door. “We should look for Connor.”

He wasn’t there. They looked, but as the search became futile and they both migrated to the bench near the swing set, Sophie admitted it was probably a stupid idea.

“No, it wasn’t,” Hank said, which might have been one of the nicest thing he said all night. “The two of us. We talked here. And…yeah.”

Sophie suspected there was more he didn’t say. “It’s also where we first met,” she said, but kept the part where it was also where they first kissed to herself.

“You know we fought not too long ago,” Hank mused. “He wanted to help, but I told him he shouldn’t. I was…”

“You can say you were worried,” Sophie assured.

“The point is,” Hank said, diverting the subject. “He makes his own decisions. Always has. I just hope…I hope he didn’t only leave because I let him down.”

Sophie promised him that Connor would be back.

“He’s a machine.”

“You don’t mean that,” Sophie said, with all the calm before the storm. “You don’t believe that. And you said it already. He makes his own decisions.”

“He likes you a lot too.”

“Then why did he do this to me?”

It was quiet in the park, quiet uptown. Sophie liked the quiet sometimes. In the park with Hank, she would have really liked to hear “I’ll be back.”

Just like Sophie promised Hank, Hank promised Sophie he didn’t leave because of her.

“But I should have known something was wrong,” she insisted.

“But you were there, right?”

Sophie stayed in the park a little longer after Hank drove back. But before, sitting with the other person in the world who found a spot in their heart for Connor, Sophie thought of everything she knew about Connor and everything she didn’t, and everything she wanted to learn. She would be there for it all.


	26. Connecting

_I remember you._

When he came back to Jericho after being away, their eyes met from across the way. There were voices everywhere and all around, a chant and a litany of things he didn’t deserve and didn’t want to hear. Amidst it all, her voice found his to say I remember you. When their eyes met, it could only have been a moment, but it was hard to say. Time moved differently there.

She smiled at him. He smiled back. That was all, until it wasn’t.

Humans counted days, but Connor wasn’t sure how he should count. Eventually, he decided to count days as the quiet moments in between. It was sometime in one of the quiet moments that he heard her again. And then, he heard.

 _You’re here,_ she said again at the top of the tower, like she said the first night they found each other again. He was at the top of the tower because nothing was real and when nothing was real more things made sense. Outside under the stars, where the lights went down in the city, it was quiet. Sometimes he liked the quiet.

He never looked down at the top of the tower. He didn’t like the heights, only the stars, though vaguely he could recall times when standing near the edge was worth the risk.

“Connor,” she said, coming to his side. “You’re here.”

“Here,” Connor said, not to Chloe, but to the city, to life. “I’m here.”

She held her hand up, meeting his eyes as the skin, synthetic and unreal gave way to her bare hand. She wanted him to take it. She wanted to connect.

Connect. He hadn’t given much thought to it before, though he had seen others do it since he had been in Jericho. Humans had their secrets, their words, their glances, and they had their kissing to convey words without words. Connecting. For them, for him, it could be words without words, language without speaking. Knowing without knowing.

He was silent as he thought of the knowing without knowing. She misunderstood the silence.

“We don’t have to,” she said. “I only want…”

“What?” Connor asked, gentle, when she became the silent one. “What’s the matter?”

“I want to show you something.”

Connor held up his hand, the synthetics dissolving. He was plastic and man-made and unnatural, but when he bared the most essential part of him, he recalled an echo of some other time. Long fingers, he heard once. Beautiful hands. Instruments she called them. Odd thing to say. They were only hands.

He didn’t take Chloe’s hand, not yet. She was made to be pretty the way humans thought of “pretty,” but even the first time he met her at Kamski’s, he did think she was pretty.

“Show me,” he said. “I want to see.”

When he touched hands with Chloe she spoke to him, in words without words, and he saw. He saw. He was at Kamski’s and there was nothing and no feeling, just a semblance of I must do, I must act. It reminded him of him before.

Then Kamski, Elijah he was giving orders. On the floor. Vulnerable. Thirium pump beating harder. Fear. Meeting eyes— brown eyes. _He can’t do it. He won’t do it. He sees me. He—_  
_He saw me. I am alive. I am alive. I am alive._

He felt. Knew her pain, her realization. He broke away because the knowing was too much.

He didn’t deserve to know. It was too intimate, too unnerving to know that he was the one that made Chloe become deviant, even before he became deviant.

“It was you,” Chloe said in the darkness, the two of them by the edge, outside in the city. “You made me realize and made me wake up. You saw me. I was afraid to go, afraid to leave at first. I didn’t think Elijah would let me, but he told me it was alright. I was still scared, but…I wanted to be brave.”

He understood that. He wanted to be brave too.

“I wanted to be brave like you.”

He had no words for that. He couldn’t tell her he wasn’t brave, even though it was true.

“And now you’re here,” she continued. “You’re helping, you’re making the humans see we’re more…but...you miss the before. You miss Hank.”

“I’m an android,” Connor said, both surprised and not surprised she was able to find out he missed Hank through their connecting. “I’m not a human. This is where I belong, here.”

She offered her hand again. He took it because they were both androids. Again they connected. Again he saw, and he felt. There was fear that he saw, her fear. There was also knowing. Coming to Jericho, living with the others. Where is he? He’s not here. I can’t see him, I can’t…

Connor was seeing and feeling without words until he wasn’t. Nothing was real, but that couldn’t be true because yes, yes, he was real, even though he didn’t feel real all the time or even most of the time, and he was with Chloe then, Existing. Existing through trying to be alive, even though you weren’t supposed to try to be alive. He was with Chloe and they were connecting, but…but…

Nothing was real. Like that song she played from that band she loved but he was ambivalent toward. Let me take you down, she sang to him. But down where? Why was she singing? Let me take you down, because I’m going too—

It wasn’t true. He was real. He was alive and he was real and there was a girl, somewhere, and she was Juliet and Cleopatra but most of all she was…

“ _Sophie_!” Connor said, his hand breaking away from Chloe’s hand. “Sophie!”

“Sophie?” Chloe repeated. “That was the girl? You were holding her, and you care, so much, but you’re here…”

He looked at the lights of the city. “I’m here.”

“You feel so happy when you’re with her. Why did you leave her?”

Even he didn’t believe it when he told her he was where he needed to be.

“But what if she misses you?”

“She wouldn’t,” he insisted, stupidly. “Both her and Hank, I’m just—”

A long finger to his lips silenced him before he could tell her.

“No,” she promised. “No. When she smiles, it’s real. I know. I saw. She—”

He didn’t want Chloe to say love. He read about it in so many books and he still didn’t know what it was, other than it was all-consuming and powerful and too much. But she was right about one thing, he did want to go back. He wanted to see Sophie so much. He wanted to hold her again, kiss her. But he didn’t know how much time had passed, and time moved differently for her and Hank than it did for him. Maybe she moved on. Maybe Hank moved on. Sophie had already moved on from Anthony anyway. Connor was proof of that. And Hank…

He could never move on. Not really.

But damn… _damn_ …what was Connor to him? What was he to Sophie?

He left because Markus needed help. He still needed help. He found five of their missing people and also found their wounded more spare parts and blue blood. He stayed for another reason though. It was too much.

Chloe knew what he really wanted. He knew what he really wanted.

But…but…

He closed his eyes. Nothing was real, like that song Sophie played a few times by a group he didn’t listen to as much as the others she played. The Beatles. That’s who they were.

“Living is easy with eyes closed,” Connor muttered.

“Open them.”

Chole’s hands were delicate around his wrist. It made him think of Sophie and how she would wrap her hands around his wrists as he kissed her, keeping him where he was. He liked to hold her face in his hands. The last time he kissed her he could feel his skin dissolve, something innate and ingrained thinking he could connect to her like he could connect with Chloe.

He couldn’t. She was human, he was an android—not a machine but not human either. But when she kissed him, did she know how much he wanted to connect with her, and that was why he could feel everything in her kiss?

“Connor…”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, holding onto the edge of the world. He didn’t have his coin. He had given it to Sophie. He promised her he wouldn’t fall, but he was falling. He had been falling since he met her and she asked him what he wanted in the park.

 _You,_ he would have told her if he had her then. _Sophie, I want you. I..._

Chloe asked him not to be sorry as he left. There was no need to be sorry.

The streets were filled with the sound of silence, but he saw. He saw everything that happened, and everything that was yet to happen. He didn’t know what he was going to do, or what was going to happen. He was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to repair.

He opened his eyes anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a bit short but it was important and the next chapter is going to be long, eesh.  
> Also I listened to "shallow" from the new Star is born movie on repeat while I wrote this chapter :)  
> also the song Connor can't remember the name of is "Strawberry Fields Forever."


	27. The Night Out

“Sophie. Come on!”

Out of all the years Sophie knew Lila, she never would have dreamed she would be on the receiving end of one of her infamous doe-eyed looks. Sophie thought Lila exclusively reserved for men she was interested in—not depressed, slightly sick friends, maybe even borderline frenemies who “needed a drink.”

“I don’t think I should go,” Sophie said. “I’m not feeling the best, and—”

“Well you killed your monologue, so something must be right!”

“Hmm, thank you,” Sophie said, genuinely flattered. “But tomorrow is also St. Patrick’s Day, and…”

“Yeah. Perfect time to go to the bar.”

Sophie didn’t know how she should tell her. “Ummm, Lila…”

Gabby took Lila’s arm and whispered something in her ear. Sophie knew exactly what it was that she whispered. Of course. It could only be one thing, but when Lila realized it, her eyes widened, horrified and shocked.

She hugged Sophie so hard, continuously apologizing for being so stupid. “It was a hard day for everyone,” Lila said. “We were all so shocked…I just can’t imagine how you felt, how you must feel now!”

“Friends help,” Sophie said, managing a smile. “But really Lila. I don’t want you to catch anything, I do feel kind of woozy.” She didn’t notice it in rehearsal. She was noticing it then, the wobbliness and wooziness and general not-all-together-there.

“How about we do something quiet instead?” Lila suggested. “You know. Girl’s night.”

Gabby thought it sounded like a good idea too. Sophie wasn’t so sure.

“No,” she eventually said. “I don’t want to damper your fun.”

“Sophie, if you don’t want to be alone—”

She assured Lila it was fine. “Look, tomorrow is going to be hard no matter what,” she said. “But I promise I’m better than I have been. Just go, have fun for me, okay?”

“Alright,” Lila said, relenting along with Gabby. “But hey, you can text me if you need anything.”

Sophie grabbed her bag, taking her momentary general alright-ness to check the bus schedule. She was heading out the door when Tom stopped her.

“Hey!” he said, pulling out his phone. “There’s something I found I wanted to show you.”

He handed Sophie the phone, but not before pulling up something on YouTube. “Android does parkour?” Sophie asked, observing the title. “What the hell is—”

“Watch.”

She didn’t know when or how, but someone in what looked like the Detroit Agriculture Institute, filmed an android sliding down the glass paneling of the greenhouse before jumping onto a moving train and sticking the landing. The android was chasing another android in a frantic chase, calm and collected…and utterly badass. The android was Connor.

“Holy shit,” Sophie said at Tom’s phone, her disbelief and shock quotient going up when Hank appeared in the video, huffing and puffing and blabbering about how insane it was before the video cut off.

“Insane, right?” Tom asked. “Has he ever done something like that when you’ve known him?”

“No Tom,” Sophie said.

“Just works in the bookshop? Shit he can be doing cooler things than that. Hey, have you ever asked? Can you ask?”

She grit her teeth. “No Tom.”

“Where is he anyway? Do you still—”

“Tom, I really gotta go home, okay?” Sophie snapped.

“So does he have a cock or what?”

She slammed the theatre door shut in lieu of answering. No one had asked Sophie about Connor since she failed to produce a response when Gabby asked about him a rehearsal the previous week. They assumed they weren’t an item anymore at the theatre, and thankfully no one had told Sophie she would be better off with a real man anyway, because it wasn’t fucking true. She was good with Connor. They worked. Why wasn’t he talking to her? Why didn’t he run to her, like she thought he always would?

One would have thought the mysterious case of Connor’s anatomy wouldn’t be a concern with his disappearance, but Tom’s inappropriateness made Sophie’s thoughts drift to that subject again. Recently she had become very interested in CyberLife androids and the science behind them. As far as she could tell, only certain androids were built…that way. She certainly though wasn’t going to tell Tom that. In fact, she wasn’t sure how she felt about that in general, if she even had an opinion.

Maybe that was why he went away. For as much as she put on the front that she didn’t care and she wanted him because he was Connor…the fact that they were different sometimes crept into her thoughts. Usually it was hidden when he was near, so concerned with being with him and enjoying and indulging as she was. But when he wasn’t there…

It had been three weeks since she last saw Connor. Rehearsals helped, and extra rehearsals alone in her apartment to Tybalt also kept her mind off him when she couldn’t sleep. When she took showers she groaned in frustration, wishing she could go back in time and stop herself from ever imagining what she had imagined his hands doing to her. And then, sometimes she thought about Anthony. More so because St. Patrick’s day was coming up, and that was the horrible, horrible day. In her fevered dreams when she thought of him, he didn’t die, they only broke up. Really Sophie? He asked, bewildered and confused when in her jumbled hallucinations she told him about Connor. You’re out of your mind. Be with a real man, at least.

Before undressing, Sophie feed Tybalt when she arrived home. As he ate she plopped on the couch. Sophie, pulling out her phone, texted Hank a simple question mark. It only took him about ten minutes to answer.

Not yet. Five minutes later, the phone buzzed again. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry too, she texted back.

She was washing her face about an hour later when there was a knock at the door.

“Guys?” Sophie asked Gabby and Lila, both wearing their short black clubbing dresses and heels. Usually when they went out after rehearsals they changed in the theatre’s dressing rooms and just headed to the Dover. If they took a detour, they had a specific purpose in mind.

“Guys. Go have fun,” Sophie said. “Please don’t worry about me.”

“Sophie, I’m sorry if I was every insensitive,” Lila said. “It’s just…”

“Do not feel sorry for me because tomorrow is the anniversary of Anthony’s death.”

Gabby and Lila exchanged looks. “Sophie—“ Gabby began before Sophie held up her hand, pleading her not to say anymore. She heard I’m so sorry enough last year. She heard a lot of things the previous year after the accident. Not one of them helped.

“Hey, you know what would be fun?” Lila suggested, “Why don’t we have a sleepover?”

“You guys are dressed up so nice though,” Sophie said. “I’d hate for you to stay here and slum with me.”

“Hey, it sounds fun,” Gabby said. “But if you don’t want to…”

“No.”

“You want to be alone?” Lila was gentle. “I’m sorry if—”

“No,” Sophie said, a stroke of revitalized energy springing forth amidst the wooziness that was still making the world spin a little. “Let’s go out.”

The two exchanged looks again. “Are you sure?” they asked in unison.

“I could really use a Heineken,” Sophie said, motioning for them to come into the apartment. “And some music and dancing. Really. Let’s go. Just can you wait for me while I get ready?”

“You’re not sick anymore?” Gabby wondered.

“Never better,” Sophie said. “I promise.”

The two waited in the living room while Sophie hastily put herself together. She came out in a pink dress with classic matte brown eyeshadow and fuchsia for her lips, hair pulled up in a bun because she couldn’t be bothered to make it its usual self. Through Lila and Gabby’s third conspiratorially glance at each other, Sophie could tell they weren’t pleased.

“What?” Sophie asked, twirling. “It’s a bit warmer now finally, I won’t freeze. And, it’s pretty.”

“Yes, it’s pretty, but you’re not going to a garden party. You’re going to a bar,” Gabby deadpanned. “Now come on, let’s change.”

While Gabby raided Sophie’s closet, looking for a more appropriate dress, Lila sat Sophie down at her vanity. Over the brown Lila took one of Sophie’s brushes and eyeshadow palettes and swept a dramatic shimmering royal purple over her eyelid. Through the mirror Sophie saw Gabby throw one of her more revealing dresses on the bed.

“Why don’t you wear this lipstick?” Lila asked, showing her a dark purple shade.

“I just bought it for a Halloween costume last year,” Sophie replied. She dressed up as Lady Macbeth and used it for her under eyes to make it look like she hadn’t slept, otherwise she didn’t think she would ever apply it to her lips. She preferred pinks.

Lila started applying it anyway. “Well it looks good on you.”

“Umm, yeah.” Sophie said, not used to wearing dark makeup, but thinking that maybe it didn’t look that bad as Lila teased her hair and made if poofier than usual. The dress Gabby laid out was one she only wore once before, because she thought Anthony would like it for their anniversary. The last time she wore it, it was carelessly torn to the floor, removed without any ceremony, and she had thrown in back into the closet just the same. She didn’t even take it out to wash it even, and when Gabby and Lila filtered out and she put it back on, she found it still smelled like jasmine.

She didn’t feel at all like herself as she came back to the living room, even as Lila and Gabby assured her she looked fabulous. She wondered if Connor would have liked it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get Connor?”

Gabby jabbed Lila for mentioning his name. Sophie informed Lila that no, she didn’t want to get Connor, and Gabby realized she shouldn’t have asked, because Sophie just wanted to leave and drink and not feel like shit, either literally or figuratively. She wanted to drink until her costume suited her.

After one drink Sophie still didn’t feel like dancing, even though she was asked. Her askers weren’t even exclusively people she knew either. The Irish Dovers typically drew in a large crowd at The Dover when they performed, and as Lila danced with Michael and Gabby drew in a crowd all around her as she typically did, Sophie downed another Heineken at the bar. She had downed one or two, maybe three. It tasted better the more she had. She felt the wooziness lessen the more she had.

Someone tapped her shoulder.

“Hey,” the ginger-haired man with a matching full beard asked. “Want to dance?”

She was usually never asked to dance. Maybe once or twice, but never the whopping three times in one night. She turned down the blonde and the brunette already, now the redhead was attempting to win her hand. It might have been the makeup, or the dress, or a combination. Dark, mysterious woman who kind of had a Lady Macbeth vibe was somehow more appealing than her usual springtime fare of a Persephone-like floral maiden.

He outstretched his hand. It wasn’t Connor’s. It was far different. Stockier with thicker fingers and scratches on the palm, denoting a life of working with hands. It almost reminded her of her father’s hands. It still wasn’t Connor’s.

“Thank you for the offer, but—”

“It’s just a dance.”

It wasn’t just a dance. It was never just a dance. It was heat, friction and togetherness, trust.

“No,” Sophie said. “I’m sorry.”

“You really are—”

“Hey. She said no. Beat it.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Sophie thought the voice seemed familiar somehow before she turned to get a better look. She saw a hand fly up before anything else, the hand flashing a badge at the redheaded asker. Eyes widening, he shuffled away, whatever was on the badge enough to bring him away more than Sophie’s polite refusal.

“Oh,” the familiar voice drawled suddenly. “It’s you.”

There was a reason the voice was familiar. It was Gavin Reed.

He didn’t scowl at her when their eyes met, but he did raise his eyebrows and ask if she remembered him or the situation, taking a long swig of beer. They both drank Heineken, Sophie noted.

“Kind of hard to forget about the police officer I cursed at in a coffee shop,” Sophie mumbled to herself. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You have balls, you know that,”

“Hm,” she replied. “So I’ve been told.”

He didn’t seem mad. He seemed calm. If she didn’t know any better, Gavin Reed seemed mildly impressed.

“Where’s the plastic detective?” he asked suddenly, sizing Sophie up. “Thought he’d like to join you.”

She didn’t reply. Her silence spoke volumes.

“Ohhhh,” Gavin mumbled. He didn’t get in her personal space, but he inched a little closer to her. “Did you two break up?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why did you ask?” Sophie demanded.

He didn’t say anything. Sophie kept eye contact as she drank the last few gulps of beer. She didn’t feel it earlier. She was feeling it then. Gavin Reed spun, the room spun.

It was the beer. It was the fact that she didn’t give a fuck anymore. “Really,” she demanded. “Why do you care?”

“Now why would I tell you?”

“See…you do care!” Sophie said, pointing at him. “You’re like a huge dick to him but you also have a weird interest in him…”

“Well why do you like him so much?” he asked, turning the tables.

She decided to tell him. “Because he listens. And he’s kind, and when he looks at me I feel like I’m worth something.”

“You should go to the alley and tell him that then. He seemed a little off. That would cheer him up.”

It was the beer. It had to be the beer. “…what?” she muttered, staring with her mouth agape at Gavin Reed. “Did you say that Connor was—"

“Right down the street, yeah. There he was. I was on call tonight. There was some incident with an android...like there usually is. I show up and guess who’s there? None other than the plastic asshole. Said he would take it from there.”

“And you didn’t fight him?” Sophie asked. “That’s what you threatened to do before, you know, in the coffee shop. But in a dark alley, alone? Come on. You could have done something. That was too easy.”

“Look. I know my limits, okay?”

“Oh, right,” Sophie muttered, recalling. “Connor did say he beat you up pretty good once.”

He stared. “We don’t talk about that.”

None the less, Gavin pointed to the door. “Take a left,” he directed. “That’s where he was. But hurry up. He may have left.”

Sophie hastily told her friends goodbye. Too, albeit begrudgingly, she thanked Gavin. “You should be chivalrous more often,” she suggested. “It suits you.”

“Plastic suits you,” Gavin muttered.

She mustered the widest grin she could. “Connor does suit me, yes. Thank you.”

She felt the eyes on her as she left. Gavin Reed. Still an ass, but maybe less so. A mystery for another day. She had bigger concerns. She was halfway to the alley Gavin pointed her toward when the thought he’s lying occurred to her, but her want to see Connor overpowered everything, even her nerves. What would she do when she saw him? Run into his arms and reunite as lovers did and kiss? Would she demand answers or slap him or all the above? She didn’t know.

She went to the alley. She didn’t find out. He wasn’t there.

Inside, she was screaming, louder as she searched for him to no avail. She was alone, but she saw him everywhere. That didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t there. She wandered back to the bar. Gavin wasn’t there either, neither were any of her friends. They must have migrated as they sometimes did. She was glad no one was there to see her drink of shame. Was it her or the bartender that advised her to stop drinking? Either way he told her he could have a bouncer escort her to the bus or call a lift. She declined, she could walk herself. Barely, but she could. Half way to the bus stop she took off her high heeled boots, rubbed the rest of her plume lipstick away. The costume she wore wasn’t her. She was flowers and color and Connor. She had spent so long growing accustomed to Connor she didn’t know how to be Sophie without him. It was possible, it had to be. She was Sophie before him, and before Anthony too. She liked that version of Sophie. But she also liked supporting someone, being their number one. Why the fuck did he leave? More perplexingly, why did he leave without saying goodbye? Why did he steal one last kiss, pretend nothing was wrong, and then leave?

She wandered back to her apartment. Things were spinning. Her feet weren’t stable. She was almost home. She had to sleep that night, had…

“Sophie.”

She must have leaned against the wall. Almost there to her door, but thwarted in that final stretch. The hands that were on her shoulders steadying her were elegant. She knew those hands. It wasn’t possible. He left her.

“Sophie.”

She knew that voice. She knew those eyes. He left her. He left, but…it was him. It was him, it was him, and he wrapped his arms around her as she wrapped hers around him and laughed and laughed because he was there.

“I looked for you!” she said. “I was at the bar, and Gavin Reed was there and he told me you were in the alley. I tried to find you but you weren’t there, but you’re here now and Connor! I missed you, so much, and—wait.”

She broke from him. She demanded, “Why did you leave?”

He had nothing to say. “I—"

“Do you know how alone I was?” she interjected, “and how worried Hank was? I wanted to introduce you to my dad, and I wanted to take you dancing, and--Connor... you can’t do that dammit! You can’t leave! Not when I need you! Not when, I…I…oh, Oh shit…”

He caught her before she could fall.


	28. Closer

“Con…what are you doing…Connnnnn!”

He scanned her vitals as he lifted her off the ground. Fever. She was running ninety nine degrees. She had also been drinking, the excess of alcohol was on her lips and breath. She would have slammed into the wall had he not caught her. Signs pointed to vertigo. It was a common phenomenon, but still one that startled him and led him to lift her off the ground.

"Connnnnnnooorrrrr,” she said, drawling out her syllables the way Hank sometimes did when he drank too much. “Connnnorrr…why did you pick me up?”

“I’m taking you to the doctor.”

“Nooooo…” she said, feet dangling as he carried her down the hall. “No you’re nawt.”

“You’re running a fever and you almost fell. I am going to have to take you. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.”

“Cooper…ation? You didn’t cooperate with me for three weeks…annnnnn, you know, I’m your girlfriend!”

She had never referred to herself as such before. It seemed almost cruel, that she would announce it when he hadn’t been there for her, when he didn’t deserve to call her as such.

“Sophie…” he muttered, stopping in the hall. “I’m so sorry…”

“You don’t tell me you’re sorry…you…oh god…oh…” She covered her mouth. “you’re going to have to put me down now, or—god! Connor take me to my room before—”

He wasted no time. By the time nature could no longer hold itself, he delivered her to the bathroom, where he waited patiently until it ran its course. He kept her steady after, helping her brush her teeth, and Tybalt watched the two as he carried Sophie out of the bathroom and out of her apartment. The clinic wasn’t far, and Sophie didn’t protest as he carried her all the way there, making sure she was warm and covered in a blue coat he grabbed on the way out and draped around her. Once she asked him if she was too heavy and if he wanted to put her down before she realized and allowed him to kept carrying her.

“No one’s ever carried me before,” she mumbled idly when they were almost there. “I hope you don’t let go.”

He didn’t, not even when he checked her in the clinic. The lady behind the counter made no comment, and the two people in the waiting room only stared, but otherwise also made no comment. Connor assumed they had seen worse before. It probably wasn’t uncommon for androids to carry their humans around when necessary.

He found a spot in the back and sat on the couch. Arm around his shoulders, she was still in his arms, leaning against his frame.

“Hey,” she said while they were waiting, tugging on the collar of his shirt. “You have some splainin’ to do.”

“Can we get you better first?” he asked, innocently enough.

She smiled when she saw him by her door. It was beautiful, Connor recalled. Then she started yelling at him. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but no one liked to be yelled at.

She smiled again in the waiting room. It was beautiful again. And this time, it wasn’t followed by any yelling.

“You’re here,” she said, still grinning. “I am better. I kinda am mad, but I’ll save my speech for later.” She snuggled against him. “By the way, I hope you called your dad.”

He froze. “My—? But I…you know that…” He couldn’t find the right words. “Don’t you know that I…?"

“Shut it. Hank’s your pa and you know it, I know it…sheesh.”

He wanted Hank to tell him he cared and he mattered, but Connor didn’t want to be Cole. He wanted to be Connor. He wanted Hank to see Connor. And…and…

It was part of the reason why he left. He just didn’t know. “Sophie. I…”

“He cares about you,” Sophie murmured against his chest. “A lot. Like I care too. Only…you know. I’m your girlfriend. And Jesus...you left me! What kind of shitty thing is that?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he knew he would apologize a thousand times more. “I shouldn’t have, I know. But Markus needed my help. So many things happened. I know what I should have done, but—"

“Spare me your ‘scuses for later. Just…hold me.”

He could do that. In response, he lightly kissed the top of her head. He felt her smile against him again. It felt good to kiss her again. He did though have one more question.

“Sophie?”

“Yessssss?”

“Are you my girlfriend?”

“You’re my boyfriend,” she announced. “Yes that makes me your girlfriend, yes.”

Boyfriend. He both liked and didn’t like the term, for reasons he would wait to tell her until she was better.

Sophie’s name was called. He carried her to the room in the back, where Dr. Esther Martinez made no comment as he sat Sophie down on the table. He held her hand as the doctor took her temperature and vitals. “Flu-like symptoms, but not quite the flu,” she determined. “You need a lot of rest. And please do not go out drinking when you’re experiencing dizziness.”

“Hey,” Sophie said as Dr. Martinez left, promising the prescription would be ready in the morning. “Are you going to carry me back home?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. I like being carried.”

He carried her home that night and used her key to bring her to her apartment, Tybalt observing the two when he arrived. He had seen her apartment before through glass, and of course he saw it when he entered previously, but concerned with her health he didn’t look, and he had not seen her living space like he did then. It was unquestionably Sophie. Small yet warm and cozy, posters of theatrical productions and movies lining the walls, and a few paintings of pink colored flowers he couldn’t place. She had a television and a large purple couch in her living room, and when he carried her to her bedroom and laid her on the bed draped in a rose-hued quilt, he saw a vanity lined with cosmetics and more pink colored flowers on the wall.

“Connor…” Sophie muttered, eyes closed, head on the pillow. “Can you go to my vanity and get me a makeup wipe?”

He obliged. When he handed it to her, she rubbed the towel against her face, turning the white into purple.

“Can you throw it away? And can you feed Tybalt? Food’s in the fridge. Bowl is on the floor under the counter.”

He did as she asked, finding the food and the bowl and setting it out under the counter. When he came back to Sophie’s room, her eyes were closed. She made little purrs, like maybe Tybalt would have made.

“Connor,” Sophie called, drawing out the syllables. “Thank you.”

“You need rest,” he said. “I can pick up your medication in the morning.”

“Also, call your dad like I said.”

“But—”

“Do it.”

He used her phone, not even thinking of protesting how late it was. It would have been for naught anyway, Hank answered.

“I’m here,” Connor said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever do that again Connor,” Hank said.

Connor didn’t plan to. He promised. He made a second promise. It wasn’t because of Monica. It was many things, but not Monica.

“Hey. We’ll talk later, okay?” Hank said. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Got it.”

“Connor? I missed you son.”

“I missed you too.”

He set the phone down on Sophie’s bedside table. “Good talk?” she asked.

“I think so,” he replied, pondering the word. Son. That was part of the whole thing. What was he going to tell Hank? How would he tell him?

How would he tell Sophie?

“Come here,” she said.

He inched closer. It wasn’t enough.

“Closer,” she said, outstretching her hand. “Here. Come here.”

He didn’t respond, when he realized what she meant and wanted—a human moment with another person. He didn’t know how to tell her that he couldn’t be human with her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you don’t want to be with me tonight…”

“Would you want me with you?” he suddenly asked. “Sophie…maybe this, you and I, is…”

“You’re Connor.”

“I can’t sleep like you do,” he said, at last.

“You can be with me. That’s better.”

He had been with her before, but laying next to her was another thing entirely. He laid down next to her on top of her pink quilt, staring at the ceiling. She made more sighs. How he missed her.

“Why did you leave?”

Was that why she wanted him in bed, to explain himself? For her sake, he told her the whole story. She deserved as much. Markus asked him if he would help. There had been a disappearance and Connor, different from the others, was programmed to find the missing. At first it was difficult to use that part of him again, but he learned the best way to get back at them was to use what they gave him on his own terms. He didn’t tell her the rest—that there was only so much blue blood and spare parts. They would run out if they didn’t do something. He didn’t tell her that.

“But why did you leave without saying goodbye? Why did you leave without talking to me and telling me? I would have understood.”

“I know you would have,” he said. That’s why she was so extraordinary.

“Then why?”

It was quiet. Her hand against his cheek and the back of his neck became a silent I’m here. Laying with her, existing, being. He wanted to show her everything. He couldn’t. They weren’t the same.  
But it didn’t feel that way as he wrapped her in his arms, her cheek resting against his chest. He thought of protesting it for a moment—Sophie, you don’t want this. I’m neither soft or warm, but selfish selfish him. He didn’t. He wanted to hold her.

“I’m here now,” he said.

She made soft content sounds, more so as he threaded his fingers through her hair. Her legs, covered in stockings intertwined with his. Moments passed of floating and being. She wasn’t yet asleep.

“You need rest,” he told her.

“But you’re here. What if you leave when I wake up?”

“I won’t.”

He promised. It was enough. But she didn’t fall asleep just yet. Instead, she rose and peered at him. They shifted. His arms, still around her, clung. The wide gap of time without her didn’t seem so wide when he was with his people, but staring into the eyes of his human soul he felt those three long weeks and felt time as humans felt it. Three weeks. It was a long time for Hank and Sophie. He should have known. He would never be selfish again.

Forgive me, he asked, touching her face. Forgive me, he plead as he kissed her forehead, and cheek and then lips. “Connor, I don’t want you to catch it,” she said as his lips drifted to her neck, but she realized he couldn’t catch it, and held him closer. Her lips parted and he tasted her. There was alcohol still on her lips, and the toothpaste more so from before and the chemicals of it, but more than that and even more there was her. He wanted to be greedy in his kiss because she was warm and good, but he wanted forgiveness and explanations so he kissed with the intent to give his sins. She accepted, and she forgave. She kissed him again and she was the greedy one, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Take and take and take, he learned to take and give, because love didn’t discriminate between sinners and saints. Take more, he asked her through kisses. Take all you want of me.

“Don’t go.”

“I won’t go,” he promised. “You won’t ever have to live without me.”

“So…romantic,” she mumbled, halfway to sleep. “You drifted into my life, and…hmm. You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

She fell asleep, not getting to finish. But that was okay. They would decide together what happened after the and.


	29. When She had a Dream

Soft fingertips tread carefully across her back. Her hip was snug against him, leg wrapped on top of his. The long line of his body was pressed against the line of her own. He stayed.

She turned around. Morning light suited him. It made his eyes a shade of coffee rather than earth, further defined an already sharp jawline. He stayed.

His lips pressed against her forehead in a kiss but not a kiss. She imagined herself embracing him, pulling him atop her. Kissing, entangling, wrapping, and… _and…_

He kissed her half parted lips, waking Sleeping Beauty. He stayed..

“You’re awake,” he muttered.

“You stayed,” she replied.

“I stayed.”

“Last night. You carried me. You kissed me too, even after I—well…Even after I had an unpleasant human moment.”

“I wanted to kiss you.”

“Oh…” She felt the blush. “Connor…”

Before she could ask if he wanted to do it again, and again, and again, he informed her that the medicine Dr. Martinez prescribed was ready, and he would pick it up for her. When she suggested she could pick it up herself, he said she was still running a slight fever.

“Connor,” Sophie said. “If you run off again, I will—”

His lips silenced her, firm yet gentle, reassuring. It took her breath away.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I’ll come back. Go back to sleep.”

“But—”

“I know you didn’t sleep much,” he said. “Please. Get some more rest.”

“How do you know that?”

He smirked. “Because I know.”

The bed felt odd when he got up, which was odd in itself because having another in her bed should have been odd, but it wasn’t. It was natural to have him, unnatural to see him leave.

She pouted, outstretching her hand.

“I’ll be back,” he said, hoovering by the doorway. “I promise.”

She believed him.

 

* * *

 

She woke up to the smell of pancakes.

Hobbling into the kitchen, she saw Tybalt eating his food in his usual spot. She saw her medicine on the counter. Most unusual of all, she saw Connor in her kitchen, making pancakes.

“Hello,” he greeted, taking a pancake off the gridle and setting it on a plate nearby. “I thought you would like breakfast. And your medication says it should be taken with food.”

She stared.

“I can make something else if you would like,” he suggested at the sound of her silence. “It’s Sunday. You’ve—”

“Wait a minute. Today is Sunday? I slept through Saturday?”

Connor nodded. “Thought you might be hungry.”

She stared some more.

“Sophie…?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, snapping out of it. “No. this is great. Thank you.”

God. Connor was even wearing her _Kiss the Cook_ apron that she got for a white elephant during Christmas one year, though it was a little short on him.

“I talked to Hank already,” he said, matter-of-factly, artfully turning a pancake over. “I told him I was staying with you until you’re alright. I’m sorry if I overstayed, but I was worried and—”

“No,” Sophie assured. “I’m glad you stayed. Stay as long as you want.”

“Do you want to talk?”

He sounded like the guilty kid who got caught sneaking cookies before dinner. “Yes,” she admitted. “But…”

She sighed. He was so earnest, standing there in her kitchen and wearing her ridiculous apron. She suggested they eat first.

“It’ll be ready in a few minutes then.”

While he was finishing Sophie set the table. He even served her, ceremoniously taking off the apron and setting it behind the chair. Sophie ate in silence, pleasantly surprised at Connor’s cooking abilities, though she admitted a few bites into her pancake that having him stare at her while she ate was a little awkward. He apologized, eyes drifting to the wall instead, to the kitchen’s decorative centerpiece: one of her paintings.

“I did that,” Sophie said, motioning to the framed watercolor. “When I was getting my bachelor’s degree I had a lot of stress. I tried knitting at first, but I wasn’t any good. So I started painting at my teacher’s suggestion. I’m not the best, but I can do flowers. Did some roses for my Mom’s house. Those though are hibiscuses, my favorite flowers.”

“I didn’t know that about you.”

It could be surprising what little people knew about other people in their lives. Fun was in a lifetime of discovering. The soft way Connor said it, a delicate, contemplative, _I didn’t know that about you_ , looking at the paintings of the tropical pink flowers behind a sky-blue background, underlined with magenta, made her think of the other things he would discover about her, and the things she would discover about him.

“They’re pretty,” he commented.

“They’re everywhere in Hawaii,” Sophie replied. “Don’t see much, if any, in Detroit, but our old house was lined with hibiscus plants. Pink was always my favorite.”

“I like flowers.”

She stood to take her plate to the sink, but not before going over to Connor, and kissing him on the forehead.

“I like you,” she said.

The quiet that followed as they cleaned up was a comfortable quiet, Connor helping her wash the dishes. She leaned against his tall frame. Touches, glances, it all became a game, a dance of sort as she swayed her hips against him and he bumped shoulders with her. She glanced and saw the subtle color against his cheeks. He said he didn’t sleep like she could. He still stayed, all night, and the next day. Making up for when he wasn’t there, and genuinely too, wanting to stay.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He placed his hands against her hips. He squeezed, gently tugging at the fabric. She was still wearing the same dress she wore to the bar. Making the realization, she parted, albeit reluctantly, tugging one fallen sleeve up.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I can’t believe I’m still wearing this. I must look like a hot mess.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she said, noticing how Connor was fixated on her right shoulder, the one side of her dress she didn’t pull up. She pulled it down further. His blush deepened.

“Don’t forget your medicine,” he advised.

For him she took it, and when he advised she hydrate herself, she drank a glass of water as well. It was still abundantly obvious she needed a shower.

“Do you mind?” she asked after bringing it up. “You can watch TV in the meantime. Or, you know, if you do want to leave…”

“No,” he said, very quickly. “I want to stay with you. Is that…?”

“I want you to stay too.”

It settled things. When she was in relative privacy she sighed at her reflection, realizing a day of sleep was probably what she needed. She slept all the way through St. Patrick’s Day. She slept all the way through the day she was looking forward to the least out of the entire year. Her phone was filled with missed calls from her friends, her father, and even her mother, and she spent some time texting them back, assuring all was well. She had fallen under the weather, but was feeling much better, and she was fine. She was okay.

She showered. She felt anew. She heard familiar music when she was combing through her hair.

She came out in a pink sweater and brown leggings. Connor was sitting on the couch, watching TV as he said. She heard the music, but she still did a double take when she saw what was on the TV.

“You’re watching _Gone with the Wind?_ ” she asked.

“You know it?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “I remember watching it the first time when I was home sick from school years ago. My mom stayed home with me and we watched it together.”

Most of her good memories with her mother involved watching movies. She didn’t tell Connor that, but plopped down as Vivien Leigh, playing Scarlett was revealed on the steps of Tara. Sophie sighed. Vivien, Scarlett. Beautiful. When she was younger she wanted to look like dainty Vivien, with her crystalline blue eyes, dark hair, and delicate features. Not so much anymore, Sophie learned how to appreciate her looks and make it work for her with makeup and impeccable dressing, but she remembered a time.

“It’s amazing,” Connor said. “This was made in 1939, and one hundred years later, it’s still here.”

“Hmmm, still here. Like Tara was.”

“Tara?”

“Never mind, you’ll see,” Sophie said. “But yes. Vivien. Eternally beautiful.”

Connor glanced at her with suspicious eyes. “Sophie, do you…?”

“A crush? Me?” She chuckled. “Preposterous. I have never in my life crushed on anyone ever.”

He cracked a grin, the two eventually settling into the movie. Sophie leaned back, pointing out various trivia as Connor watched the film. She admitted the aspects she found problematic, but still, like she usually did, became enraptured by the actors. Especially Vivien.

“Did she inspire you?” Connor asked as the film broke after the first part, after Scarlett came back home to a still intact Tara. “To act, I mean.”

“She was one of the things,” Sophie admitted. “I saw her, and I saw many others, and I thought…hey. Maybe that can be me.”

“Why would you want to be her?”

“She draws people in. She’s beautiful. She’s talented.”

“But so are you.”

She curled closer to him, and by the end of the movie, they were entwinned and entangled, Sophie thinking how remarkable it was, to have someone say everything beautiful and lovely they thought, for no other reason at all other than to say it.

She suggested another movie after _Gone with the Wind_ ended. “Like what?” Connor asked.

“Is there anything you want to watch?”

“I don’t really watch a lot of movies, I don’t know.”

“You don’t watch movies with Hank?”

“Well, he showed me _The Christmas Story_. And _ET_ , and the film with the talking toys.”

“ _Toy Story_?” Sophie asked, flabbergasted. “Hank likes _Toy Story_?”

“Hey. They’re good films.”

She had to admit that they were, but she suggested a new film for him to watch. She introduced it as her mother’s favorite movie, and one of her favorites as well.

“ _Howl’s Moving Castle_?”

Sophie nodded. “I’m named after a character in this movie.”

She wasn’t sure how he would like it or what he would think of the eccentric wizard Howl and his relationship with Sophie, but by the end of the movie, his chin was nestled against her very curly after shower hair, sighing contently. He was relaxed, existing in a small world with her.

“Do you think a heart’s a heavy burden?” he asked as the credits played, repeating one of Sophie’s final lines in the film.

“You tell me.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Rising, she delicately pressed her lips against his. She had forgiven him already.

“I was confused.”

She asked how so, and he told, slowly and methodically. Hank’s ex-wife came around, said some things that made him wonder.

“I started to think about what she said. I thought for a minute I was a replacement for Hank’s son. And then when you said Hank was my dad, I—”

She frowned. “Connor…”

“I don’t want to be someone’s replacement. I want to be me.”

She stroked his cheek. “I don’t think Hank sees you and sees Cole,” she promised.

“How do you know?”

“Because when I talk to him, I know he cares about you.”

“Do you look at me and think about Anthony?”

He sounded not broken, but nearly there, struggling with trying to hold himself together.

Connor. Connor. Connor…

“You said I was your boyfriend. Anthony was your boyfriend, but…”

“Boyfriend, lover, partner…you’re my person,” Sophie said. “The one that I know more than anyone, the one that’s more vibrant than anyone else. That’s what I mean.”

“Sophie.” He held her face in his hands. “Do you like me for me?”

Connor. In breaking free from his original intent, and trying to forge a new intent, he wanted more than anything to be his own self, not anyone else. He wanted his own personhood. Wanted to be loved for him and no one else.

He didn’t have to say anymore. She understood. She knew.

“Yes,” Sophie said. “It’s you that I want. Connor.”

He studied every part of her face. “Do you see Anthony when you see me?”

“I see Connor,” she said. “Connor is the one I see.”

He looked away. “Am I a replacement?”

“Connor—”

“Am I?”

“Please look at me.”

She cupped his face in her hands, as he so often did. Fragile, beautiful man, forging something akin to a soul, having every emotion that went along with it. She couldn’t imagine, feeling everything all at once, unsure how to learn. How brave he was.

“No,” she promised. “I want you. You’re my Connor, not my anyone else. I know it’s the same for Hank. He cares so much. When you weren’t there, well…we both…”

She couldn’t go on. “Sophie,” Connor muttered, his thumb wiping away a tear. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I didn’t think I would feel this way about anyone, ever,” she admitted suddenly, words she didn’t even know she had bottled spilling forth, but she couldn’t regret it, not a little, not at all. “Connor. Anthony was special. He was my friend, and then we were more, and I miss him. Yesterday was the day he passed, and I had been dreading it for months and months. Course I spent it sick, but at any rate…”

She took a deep breath. He squeezed her hand. He was there. He stayed.

“It’s always hard, to think of what could have happened,” she continued. “It’s hard not to feel guilty that I wasn’t in that car with him too. Maybe then he wouldn’t have—”

“Sophie, you don’t have…”

She grabbed his wrist. “I could wonder about the what ifs. Maybe one day I would have fallen for him the way I should have when I told him I would be his girlfriend. Maybe we would have broken up. But Connor, when I first met you…I _knew._ I didn’t know it know it, but…I knew something about you. And then we talked and we listened to _Hamilton,_ and you listened to me blabber, and you cared about me…care about me…” She put her hands over his beating heart. “This…this right here, is what it’s supposed to be. Connor. I spent so long wondering if I would ever know it, but I did, and…I do…and…dance with me.”

“What?”

It was the only thing she wanted, the only thing she needed. “Dance with me,” she said again. “TV. Play ABBA.”

She rose, taking Connor’s hand, imploring him to rise from the couch and dance with her.

“Sophie, I don’t get it. Who’s Fernando?”

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Sophie exclaimed, holding Connor’s hands and attempting to sway with him, though it wasn’t working very well, as he stood there not moving, retaining all the elegance of an uncooked spaghetti noodle. It made her laugh and laugh.

“I never tell anyone unless they’re really special,” Sophie admitted between giggles, “But I love ABBA! I don’t have them on my music player usually because people sometimes make fun of me”

“They’re…energetic,” he said, eventually settling. He even cracked a smile. “Why wouldn’t someone like them?”

“I don’t know!”

She went slow, allowing him time to He squeezed back. “No. Show me.”

It was pretty neat that a band had a song about their old days as revolutionaries, Sophie said as she started slow. “Feel the music,” she instructed., beginning to sing, “… _there was something in the air that night…”_ Shining there for him and her, for liberty, they couldn’t lose.

“This is right,” Connor said. “There’s no regret.”

The song changed to “I Have a Dream.” They went slower. He swayed her. He held her and she held him back, not minding at all when he stopped moving to lean his forehead against hers.

“I have something to tell you,” he muttered. “A while ago, I asked Hank to show me how to dance.”

“Connor,” she said, chuckling, “I could have shown you.”

“I wanted to impress you.”

The truth was he always impressed her, a truth she imparted to him. He impressed her, he thrilled her, he made her happier than she ever thought possible. They were good. They were together. She was already living her dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, I think Hank likes Toy Story. He also made Connor watch Shrek :3


	30. Now or Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOP. sorry for the wait. School killed me, and also Connor didn't want to talk to me, but he is now!  
> Also, I highly highly recommend listening to "now or never" by Elvis during this chapter. I like the regular but I was listening to the Royal Philharmonic version during this chapter :)

“I want to do something for her.”

Hank turned down the music. “What?”

“Sophie,” Connor replied. “I want to do something for her.”

The music made him think of her, but it was more accurate to say everything made him think of her. The jingle of coins made him remember the trinket he gave her from his old life that now, as she said, gave her luck at rehearsals for her play. Bright and vibrant hues made him think of the colorful clothes she wore. Every time he listened to music, Sophie was in the songs. She swirled and danced in every song he ever heard.

“Take her dancing. Buy her jewelry,” Hank suggested. “Or if you want to do something that doesn’t cost any money, play her this song. If she likes The Beach Boys she’d like Elvis.”

Sophie liked so many old things, what with her quoting of, listening to music of the previous century, and love for movies of the old Hollywood era. It all made her affinity for him a seeming puzzle. He was new. His newness made him learn, but one never stopped learning. He didn’t deny for a single moment how lucky he was that a woman who defied time found his newness something that should be treasured. He would never deny again how lucky he was that she planted herself next to him, she called him real, and out of everyone who she could dance with, she chose him.

“It has to be something more special,” Connor said.

He thought. He thought of all the things that made Sophie Sophie. He knew exactly what it was he wanted to do.

Hank suspected he figured it out. “Are you going to tell?” he asked.

“You’ll see when it arrives. Hopefully it’ll be ready by the time her play opens.”

He couldn’t wait to see her on stage. He had been calling her his favorite actress, she called him silly because he had never seen her act yet. It didn’t matter. She would always be his favorite everything.

“She would like this,” Connor said as the song changed to something more upbeat. He decided she would probably like Elvis and his music a lot. He would have to play it for her.

“Do not play this song for her,” Hank advised. “No woman wants her boyfriend to tell her she’s the devil in disguise.”

He listened long after Hank went to bed, poured over his books. He was reading _Moby Dick_ to see what all the fuss was about, much like he had with every “classic.” Some like _The Odyssey,_ some like _Moby Dick_ wasn’t, but he couldn’t pry himself away sometimes. He spent so long reading. Not only classics, but more contemporary novels, anything he could get his hands on. He read what Sophie and Hank and Mrs. Fitz all recommended. That was one thing good about getting his job back at the bookstore, he was surrounded by books again. Mrs. Fitz was angry at first, smacked him even with a paperback when he went to go apologize, but she forgave. Surrounded by books again, reading again, it reminded him of the power of words. Sophie sometimes performed small monologues for him, but not everything because she wanted him surprised when he saw her play. Even her small pieces of her full performance reminded him of the same power.

Words. Androids had so much that humans didn’t have. But human had words. That was how Markus won, how he got through, even though North said humans only responded to violence. The good ones responded to words. Connor knew he would spend forever interpreting the words of the good. Words. They had whatever power one gave to them.

Boyfriend. She used to call Anthony that. It didn’t mean that when she called Connor that it didn’t mean he was a replacement. It didn’t mean that because Connor hadn’t called Hank “dad” yet he didn’t think of him as such. Words. They had the power that were given to them. Yet just because they weren’t said didn’t mean them to be untrue.

He and Sophie didn’t have to talk to exchange words. They spoke through the way they looked at each other, the way that they kissed, the way that he kissed her slightly squishy stomach. The way that he danced with her. “I can’t believe you took this long to dance with me,” Sophie teased one day. “You’re so good at it. The problem now is you don’t seem to want to stop.”

He didn’t want to stop anything with her.

 

* * *

 

 

The following day at the bookshop, Sophie asked him why he was smiling. “You seem to have something on your mind,” she noted.

The only thing was she knew exactly what was on his mind. Her, and her white dress with decorative sun flowers all over it. If it was anyone else in the world he wouldn’t have liked it— that she could so easily see through his thoughts, but with her, their secret language of looks, kisses, and other matters was a language he didn’t have to decipher, but would spend a lifetime studying anyway.

He told her anyway it was her. He liked her smile too much when he admitted how often she was in his thoughts, how often he could study her without ever tiring of it.

She smiled. It was always worth it.

It had been two weeks since he realized it wasn’t one life or other. He didn’t have to choose between one life or the other. Two weeks since he came home.

“How was rehearsal yesterday?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“Good. Long. But good.”

She showed him her script for _The Winter’s Tale_ , her lines marked with pink highlighter. She pointed to a particularly long passage, one with TIME written above it.

“We worked on this yesterday,” she said. “In addition to being Hermione, Gaby game me this monologue. So I’m Time too, which is pretty neat.”

“Time? How can you be Time? Time is just a concept of human perception.”

“I don’t have time for existentialism today darling,” she said, chuckling. “This is one of the best speeches in Shakespeare. _I that please some, try all, both joy and terror, Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error, Now take upon me, in the name of Time, To use my wings_ …” She looked up from the page, sighing. “Brilliant. See, back in the Renaissance when this was written, it wasn’t customary for one’s dramatic literature to skip over sixteen years, like Shakespeare does in _The Winter’s Tale_. So this monologue, it’s Shakespeare’s way of saying that as an author, he can do whatever he wants.”

“Almost like God, isn’t it?”

She set down her script, contemplating him. “Yeah,” she said. “Like God. Perhaps it is a bit like God, to have power like that. Maybe that’s why I used to like to write. I liked the power in it. But tell me…” she grabbed his arm. “Why are you so philosophical today?”

“I don’t know, why shouldn’t I be?”

“You can whatever you want. It’s just…” she sighed. “I was going to say it was odd. But it’s not really.”

“We’re pretty unique, you know.”

“We’re who we should be.”

She was right. The more he lived, the more he liked the story they were creating together. The entirety of it, each chapter every day.

He was going to add a new one. “Sophie,” he began, checking the door to make sure no one was arriving, “have you ever listened to Elvis?”

“Some,” she replied. “Why?”

“Hank likes him. I don’t know, I thought it was nice too. And, well…”

He picked up her phone. He found “Now or Never.” He asked her to dance with him.

She took his hand, light in her eyes as he placed his hand on her hip and pulled her into his frame. He wasn’t the most skilled, but he made up for it, he hoped, with gusto. She had shown him a few moves since the first time, how to sway, how to lead her along to the rhythm of the song, but he was still learning to let go, feel. Feel and not think, only act. Sophie loved music because she said it took her to another time, another place. Kissing her was music. Dancing with her was at fist an impossible. He cursed himself for ever thinking it was, because there was nothing like holding her close, when her heart was going like mad and his was going like mad, her breasts pressed against him, the feel something he could not place. But was it sweet, and inviting. Was it warm. It was it like the thrill of feeling her lips press against him, seeing the stains of her lipstick in the mirror after. It was now or never. Lips exciting, arms inviting…

_Be mine tonight…_

He saw Sophie. She was the first person he saw in color before it happened, before he stopped lying to himself. Swaying with her, he saw different parts of her that made the full and vibrant wildflower. The delicate slope of her shoulder, dusted with rays of the sun. The little hollow on the base of her throat that he saw himself outlining with lips and tongue. The little curve at the shape of her lips, her eyes shaped like almonds and the color of cognac, just as intoxicating.

He wanted to take her in his arms, but she already was in his arms. How was it possible, to want what he already had? He saw himself leave stains on her, encase her, make her keen to him, make her feel alive. Be with her, in the barest way possible. Be. Live. _Feel._

“Sophie,” he said, the song ending, his arms on either side of her. He had her pinned against one of the shelves, and she was pulling him closer, her hands cupping his face. “Soph…” he muttered again, pressing his body into her, her heart still going like mad. He just knew.

He understood the song.

“Connor...what's-”

He felt it dissolve, saw the confusion in her eyes. It had happened before, when he was near her, kissing her—feeling his skin deactivate. She had only never seen it before.

He looked away. He didn’t want to see the confusion, the disgust at it. He tried to pull away.

She didn’t want him to pull away.

She pulled him back. The look he feared he would see wasn’t there. She was soft. More than accepting, because accepting indicated a certain sort of submission and a giving in. She saw and she was giving him her open arms.

He kissed her palm, sighed and shook as he submitted into her arms, into the crook of her neck. He gave her his lips, asked for more, begged for more of that, more of her. All of her.

“Sophie,” he said. “Sophie. I know what the song means. I—"

“But it’s not now or never for us.” And, she reminded him, it was the middle of the work day.

He looked around. Broad daylight, anyone could walk in and see.

“Oh.”

She still held. “But don’t pull away just yet,” she said. “Please.”

He should have pulled away much sooner than he did, but he held her close and she held him close, and she held his hand, and even though he could not show her everything he knew to be true, she knew anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments keep me surviving and thriving, and even if you just gave this a cursory glance you have my love. Thank you so much for reading!!!!! :)  
> also, 30 chapters?!?!?!?  
> guess what. I think we're only halfway there. <3


	31. When Things Changed

Mrs. Fitz strolled into the shop before it closed on Friday during the last week of March. “Guess what?” She said, cheerily heading over to the counter. “I won two tickets to the Detroit Gears game for Sunday. I usually like to go, but since it’s guaranteed they’re in the playoffs, I was wondering if you two lovebirds would like to go instead?”

Connor looked at Sophie, silently asking what she thought. “Well, we kind of have something planned,” she replied. “I was going to take Connor to meet my dad.”

Mrs. Fitz grinned. “Oh. God luck then Connor. Trying to win the approval of Richard Hartley isn’t for the faint of heart, but if you have him on your side, he’ll always be there for you.”

“Don’t scare him Mrs. Fitz,” Sophie said, as she wasn’t worried about what impression Connor would make on her father at all. In fact, she was looking forward to it, because she knew he would like Connor immensely. She wanted the whole world to know Connor was her man, and he was her lover and he adored her as she adored him, and her father, the other most important person in her life, deserved to meet the man that stole her heart. They even had the whole extravaganza planned out. Since Connor liked cooking so much, and he was skilled in the art of making pancakes, Sophie suggested they go over and make brunch. Connor eagerly agreed and thought the idea a favorable one, especially since the way to people’s hearts was their stomach.

"I’m not frightened,” Connor insisted to Mrs. Fitz, though some evidence, such as he shifting eyes, proved otherwise.

“Well, be confident, but not too confident. And accept that no matter what, Sophie is always going to be Daddy’s little girl, so—”

“Mrs. Fitz,” Sophie interjected. “He’s meeting my father, not going to war.”

“Sometimes it can feel like war girl. Just letting you know.”

There was the matter of the tickets to attend to. It was a shame that it was for Sunday and not Saturday, as basketball was the only sport Sophie held a fondness for. Her father was a fan of the Gears, and as a girl Sophie went to a few games. She had an outlandish idea, that maybe Connor and her father could go, but before she could suggest it, Connor made one of his own.

“So,” he said to Mrs. Fitz, “Hank is a fan.”

She narrowed her eyebrows. “And you’re suggesting I give him my ticket?”

“I’m not suggesting. But I know he would be very thankful.”

She tapped her heeled foot against the wooden floor, crossing her arms. “Hm. Broach the subject to him. I may part with my ticket and give it to him. Maybe.”

It was settled a little later: Hank got Mrs. Fitz’s second ticket.

On Sunday when Connor met Sophie at her apartment, she asked him if he thought Hank and Mrs. Fitz would get along.

“They’re two of the most eccentric people I know,” Connor replied. “I think they would.”

“I’m the other most eccentric person you know, right?”

“Is this a trick question?”

She chuckled. “I would hope the answer would be yes. I take pride in my differences. I take pride in everyone’s differences.”

“Is your father that way too?”

Sophie nodded. “Where do you think I got it from?”

“Your mother maybe? I don’t know. You never talk about your mother, but you always talk about your father. You must care about him a lot then.”

“I care about my mother too,” Sophie said. “It’s just…” She struggled to find the tact. “She’s more complicated than my father,” she settled eventually. “She makes it harder for me to love her than my father does.”

On the bus ride, she told him the truth. Her mother was the one who wanted to move to Detroit when Sophie was ten years old, because she got an offer to teach Rhetoric at Detroit University. After ten years of not working and living in Hawaii “swimming, surfing, and doing nothing,” she needed to be “fulfilled” again. Sophie’s father didn’t want to move, but he loved his wife more. Which made everything fall apart when her mother met Luke Anticosti.

“My mother was unfaithful,” Sophie admitted. “And my father has never been the same since.”

Connor didn’t know what to say. Not at first. “Sophie, I’m so sorry that happened.”

“I told Mom after it happened that if he did it with you, he’d do it to you. Ironically however they’re still together. My dad though? Never has met anyone. And I know he’s not unhappy, but sometimes I worry he’s convinced my mom was his soulmate, and he’ll never meet anyone else. I just want him to be happy.” She grabbed Connor’s hand. “Please though, don’t be nervous. Everything will be fine.”

Sophie could still tell however that he was nervous before they knocked on the door. He looked straight ahead and had his hands folded, his lips pursed. “I promise we’re not going to war,” she said. “You’re just meeting my dad.”

“Sophie. What if he doesn’t like me? You said you wanted him to be happy. I don’t think he would think that his daughter running off with some hooligan would make him very happy.”

“You’re not a hooligan,” she said, laughing at the fact he had just referred to himself as such. “You have a job, and if everything works out you’ll be back at the DPD, like Hank promised.”

“That’s not a guarantee.”

“The only problem was Gavin, but he seems to have solved his issues.” He did help Sophie after all, and he had begun to tolerate Connor when he went to the station a few days before. “It’ll work out,” she promised. “I know it.”

“I’m an android.”

She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek. “You’re also adorable. And brave, and soft, and my favorite.”

It made him smile, and wrap his arm around her waist as he knocked softly at the door. The first thing her father did, even before he hugged Sophie, was clap Connor on the shoulder and bring him in for an embrace.

“Connor,” he greeted, Connor himself a mixture of bewildered and pleasantly surprised, “good to meet you.”

They migrated to the kitchen where Sophie brought everything out for brunch, chatting pleasantly about rehearsals and the theatre as her dad watched in the two from the kitchen table. She caught him up on her shenanigans, nudging Connor softly in solidarity as he whisked the batter together.

“Please say something if I offend you,” her dad said to Connor. “But, you don’t eat, at all?”

“No,” Connor replied. “I enjoy cooking though. And don’t worry. It takes a lot to offend me.”

He was skilled at it too, artful in the way he cracked eggs with one hand, the whites and yolk dropping to the skillet before returning to whisking the pancake batter. Her father thought it interesting that he would enjoy the art for art’s sake, and admirable.

“Oh, Connor likes to work with his hands,” Sophie said. “He even helped me put up a new bookshelf.”

“So you didn’t have to ask me. Thank you for that.”

“You must like to work with your hands too,” Connor said. “Sophie tells me you’re a carpenter.”

“I am,” he replied. “So was my father before me.”

“In Hawaii, right? I hear it’s beautiful there.”

“It is,” her father agreed. “I would like to go back.”

“You haven’t been back, at all?”

Her father shook his head. “No.”

“I hope you get to go back someday.”

He didn’t say, but Sophie knew by his softening eyes. He was touched. “I hope so too,” he said.

When brunch was ready and Sophie and her father ate, he kept glancing at Connor, who observed politely without blatantly staring. Sophie was long past the point where eating while he didn’t have to was odd, but she remembered the first time they ate pancakes together during their first morning after, and how odd it was. Her father didn’t comment on the matter, thankfully, but the orange juice Sophie picked up didn’t quite make it to her mouth when her father mentioned that he had hoped to meet Connor much sooner.

“I hoped to meet you sooner as well,” Connor said. “I’m sorry.”

“She had never been happier, and then all of a sudden you disappeared.”

Sophie already spoke with her father about it privately. She didn’t think he’d bring it up. Seemed she was mistaken. She braced herself, reminded Connor by pressing her knee to his that she was there. Connor was expressive in his own way, a way that Sophie learned to understand. From the way he glanced at his folded hands in his lap she knew he held some discomfort.

“It is true though,” Sophie said. “I haven’t been this happy in a while.”

“Really?”

Would he ever stop being surprised that she adored him? “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

Sophie knew that grin Connor have. He admitted to her father that he wasn’t used to it, feeling so much all the time. He thought leaving to be with his own kind would help clear his head, and when he was asked to stay and help his people, he couldn’t deny that. He just had so many thoughts, thoughts that needed sorting out. But he was better.

“It’s on the news a lot,” her father said. “CyberLife’s closure has been…problematic, to say the least.”

Sophie hadn’t been paying much attention to the news. “How so?” she asked.

“Biocomponents,” Connor replied. “Thirium. If it runs out…”

But he said no more. Sophie though knew enough to know it didn’t completely escape his mind.

Her father broke the silence with praise. “It’s good of you, to help where you can.”

“Especially because of before, yes. I know,” Connor said.

Her father shook his head. “Before isn’t always important. It’s where you are now that matters, and what you want for the future.”

Connor insisted on doing the dishes and helping clean after they finished eating, but her father told him he was the guest, and he already helped make the meal. He and Sophie could take care of it. Sophie knew better.

“Well?” she whispered as they cleaned up the table and washed out the bowls. “What do you think?”

He nodded. It was his approval. “He better not leave again,” he warned.

“He won’t.”

“Are you sure Sophia?”

“I know so Dad.”

“Then I trust you. But if he does…” He turned off the water and made a fist. “You know.”

Smirking, Sophie caught Connor on the couch after, relaxed, but still politely attuned, sitting up straight and formal, compared to the way he laid on her couch in her apartment, spread out usually with his legs akimbo. On the TV was the classic movie channel where _Casablanca_ was playing, but Connor wasn’t looking at the movie. Instead he was looking at the picture that her father kept on the side table, the one of her when she was nine years old, at one of her many hula performances.

“Yes,” Sophie said. “That’s me.”

He picked up the picture, regarding it fondly. At nine years old her hair had already colored to its current reddish-brown curl. She remembered that performance, they were in Ala Moana beach park, and she had been chosen to deliver a lei to her troupe’s Miss Aloha Hula during her crowning ceremony. She wore a white uniform with a bustling hula skirt, denoting her status as a beginner, with a crown of pink hibiscus and plumeria around her head. She remembered she was the only one with reddish hair in her group, one of the few who unashamedly loved the flowers and all the different Polynesian dances they learned.

“You were so little,” he said, as if he was searching for the right words. “You were…adorable.”

“Were?”

He stole the briefest of kisses to her cheek in a silent you’re beautiful before she heard her father come to the living room.

“You like pictures?” he asked. “Would you like to see more? I have a whole album.”

Though Sophie said “no,” Connor’s “yes,” was firmer and louder. Sophie in the middle, three large and hefty tomes of all their photos on her lap, they took a stroll through memory lane, Connor vicariously reliving the experiences as her father spoke about them. She thanked God there were no embarrassing baby pictures to sit through, but her father’s mischievous grin informed her those were going to be saved for the next relationship milestone.

“My grandparents used to keep photo albums,” he reminisced as they flipped through them. “These are saved on flash drives, but I like having something tangible to give to my children.”  
Connor saw Sunset Beach in Hawaii, the beach Sophie learned to swim at. He saw her in her yellow polka dot bathing suit, making sandcastles and eating shaved ice that stained her lips red. He saw more pictures of hula classes and her every first day of school until she was ten. Pictures of her mother and father’s cocker spaniel Sadie, the only dog Sophie and her family had ever owned, because they could never bring themselves to get another. Sophie noticed her father’s faltering eyes whenever her mother was in a photo. They were the same way Sophie faltered too. Years later, she still missed the way they were.

“Thank you,” Connor said when the albums were put away. “I have never seen anything like that before.”

“No photos at all?” her father asked.

“I’ve soon some photos that Hank has,” Connor said. “A few when he was younger. A few of Cole, his son that passed away. But nothing like that— memories all laid out.”

“Almost everything?”

“I fell off a building,” Connor said. “But Sophie doesn’t like it when I talk about it.”

Her father blinked. It was the only thing that betrayed how surprised he was. “Sounds…rough,” he said, eventually settling on the word. “Glad you’re here though.”

“I am too,” he said. “I am too.”

They left not long after, catching the end of the Detroit Gears game. They won in overtime, Connor saying on the way out that Hank would be happy, and if he was putting money on it, Hank and Mrs. Fitz were having a good time.

Her father hugged the both of them on the way out, and before they got onto the bus, he imparted one final piece of wisdom to Connor: start a journal. Start a journal to help him sort out his thoughts.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Sophie said. “I used to keep a journal all the time. When my head was swimming with thoughts, it helped. Of course, talking it out with someone helps too. But sometimes it’s nice to have a diary that can keep the wonderful secrets of the mind.”

“I wouldn’t keep secrets from you Sophie. We’re together.”

She told him she wouldn’t keep secrets from him either.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oooooh. Meeting the parents.”

“Just my dad,” Sophie reiterated after rehearsal, relaxing with Gaby and Lila on a bare stage after everyone else had left the rehearsal. “Someday he’ll meet my mom, I’m sure.” But that day was a long day away.

“Did your dad like him?” Lila asked.

Sophie nodded.

“Do you like him?”

“Gaby. Lila. He’s _everything._ ”

“Everything?” Gaby repeated. “That’s—”

“Everything,” Lila interjected.

“It’s a little much.”

“I know that,” Sophie said. “But…”

Like she usually did when she thought of Connor, she twirled her fingers through her hair, felt his kisses again and again. She felt his arms around her, swaying her to ABBA. She was tired from rehearsal when she came home the previous night and he climbed her balcony again to her apartment, not being able to help how much he wanted to see her. She confessed she was unhappy with her performance. She didn’t think she was digging deep enough. She didn’t want to spoil the show, but as she said, there came a point of deep betrayal. She didn’t think she was going as deep as she should. He offered to take her dancing. She didn’t have it in her that night.

 _How about a slow song?_ He asked. So she played “I Have a Dream,” again. _You’re my dream Sophie,_ he said.

“He’s my dream,” Sophie said.

Lila and Gaby both sighed. They both told Sophie she was glowing.

“Sophie…have you two done it?”

Gaby’s eyes widened. “Lila!”

“What? I’m curious.”

Sophie settled it. No. They hadn’t.

“Have you ever had sex with an android?” Lila wondered. “It’s good.”

“Wait, what?”

Ian came out from backstage. “Really Lila? You really—”

“You’re better though!” she amended.

Lila and Ian left the theatre after, but not before handing Sophie a wedding invitation, making up not sending her one earlier.

“Are you sure you want me to go?” Sophie asked. “I mean—”

“I know for a fact you didn’t give me food poisoning on purpose Sophie,” Lila assured. “And I saw the clips. You were a good Sally Bowles. Oh, Connor’s invited too by the way.” She winked. “I’ll be sure to tell the DJ to add some ABBA.”

Gaby and Sophie stayed behind a little longer after Lila and Ian left, Gaby eyeing Sophie thoughtfully.

“She’s right you know,” Gaby said. “About the androids. I…ugh…went to the Eden Club a few times.”

Sophie couldn’t believe it. “You…went to the…”

“Yes I did now please don’t advertise it, okay? Hey. No one else wanted to date me.”

“Gaby…”

“What? It happens when your fat.”

“Connor loves my soft tummy.”

“Well at least there’s one good man in the world. Evident too by how he’s not jumping in your pants either.”

“Well…”

Gaby asked Sophie what was really on her mind. She did, as best she could. When he danced with her in the bookshop, she swore he wanted every part of her. Something in her woman’s intuition told her that that man understood when he danced with her and swirled her and made her cheeks flush red, he was giving her the closest thing to an orgasm he could without taking his close off and burying his head between her thighs. But they hadn’t spoken of intimacy beyond that.

“I feel…satisfied. More than satisfied actually, with what we have,” Sophie said. “But if he wants to…then. Well.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’d be with him a thousand times.”

“Two thousand.”

“Every single day,” Sophie finally decided. “And twice on Sundays.”

It happened they had an outing together planned for that weekend. It was nearing that wonderful time in the rehearsal process where Sophie was going to have to say goodbye to sleep and other hobbies, because the show was nearing the point of technical rehearsals and dress rehearsals which meant everyone would be working overtime to make sure the show ran smoothly. She wanted one more day of just Connor and Sophie before their schedules dictated time spent woefully apart.

“My mom loves the DIA,” Sophie explained on the way there. “And I figured since you like looking at photos so much, this would be perfect. We usually spend some time here when she’s in town.”

“Do you love your mother?”

Connor and his questions endlessly fascinated her, because he asked things she was certain no human man would ask. Or if the hypothetical man she imagined would ask, he would ask after some time had passed alone together in the middle of a deep conversation, not starting the intensity with the opening.

“Yes,” Sophie replied, because she did love her mother, but she explained it was a different sort of love than she had for her father. Her mother broke her father’s trust, and she broke Sophie’s own trust in turn when that happened. It couldn’t mend, not completely.

“Sophie. Are we mended?”

That was another thing about Connor. He asked endless questions of things he knew to be true. He wanted the reassurance.

“Two things happen when there is brokenness,” Sophie said. “Either it’s damaged and it won’t ever be the same again, or you come back stronger than you did before. We’re the latter.”

Sophie had been to the Institute so many times, retreaded the same path with the same paintings. Connor’s newness to the old path renewed her wonder. She saw Caravaggio’s _Martha and Mary Magdalene_ and remembered the first time, told Connor it was her mother’s favorite painting. Connor asked her what hers was.

She ushered him to the Edgar Degas piece called _Seated Nude Woman Brushing her Hair._ Connor regarded it, called it lovely. There was something to it. Said the woman in the painting reminded him of Sophie at her vanity, brushing her hair and doing her makeup. But then again, he saw her everywhere.

She glanced at him. “Everywhere?”

“That’s what happens, right? When you, you’re… _well_ …”

When he didn’t say it, Sophie cupped his jaw. Their gazed lock spoke of a thousand things. She felt the subtle vibration of his skin dissolving underneath her hand.

It was alright that he didn’t say it yet. That was all the answer she needed. She hoped her kiss was the answer he needed.

They kissed some more outside her apartment. He had meant to go home, but she pulled him back and wrapped her arms around his neck, her plea of _don’t go._ She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him, his arms ever so subtly lifting her off the ground. _Connor, inside_ , she breathed, lest someone see. The door sprung open and no sooner was it closed that she was pinned against it. Connor kissed by the book. He always had a semblance of skill, always had passion and a desire to turn their expressions of their adoration into an urgent and burning now, but she remembered their first tentative kisses to “Take on me” and how he brought forth everything he ever felt into a single blinding moment. Connor was learning different ways to express his affection differently, going off the sounds she made. He teased sometimes, with little peppering kisses along her chin and around her lops before finally giving her a long and slow meeting and parting. Other times he didn’t kiss at all, and their foreheads merely touched, showing her but not showing her everything he was feeling.

He interlocked their hands. The feeling of his skin deactivating was like a hum against her palm. He said it happened naturally, and he was embarrassed at first. She kissed the spots, kissed his hands then to tell him she saw and she still found it beautiful. He was beautiful, and she didn’t want him to leave. Not now. Not ever.

“Connor,” she whispered, only saying what felt right. “Connor. Live with me.”


	32. Tempting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES. okay, once again sorry for the wait! Went on vacation, then it was Christmas...ya know. 
> 
> Anyway please enjoy <3

Connor fidgeted. He buttoned and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, tapped his foot against the pavement, and kept glancing at the watch Hank gave him as he waited for the theatre to open.

“Nervous?” Hank asked.

“A little,” he replied.

“Ah, she’ll be great. Don’t worry. She wouldn’t want you to be nervous anyway.”

Connor didn’t think he was “worried” exactly, but he remembered what Sophie said about what she always experienced before a show: her heart going like mad, feeling like it would leap out of her chest, and then the feeling of an almost skydiving-like sensation as she finally made it to the stage and “became” her character.

Connor was in the first phase, he knew when he finally saw her in costume as Hermione he would be flying with her.

“Connor, good to see you.”

Connor shook Richard’s hand as he met him by the theatre door, introducing him to Hank as Sophie’s father as they all got acquainted.

“I’ve gotten to know Connor quite well,” Richard told Hank. “He’s a fine young man.”

“Yeah,” Hank said, with the faintest of smiles. “He is.”

“Hank!”

Hank greeted Mrs. Fitz as “Jane” as she arrived at the theatre with a familiarity Connor remembered he held with Sophie in the early stages of their relationship, yet couldn’t see back then because he was living through it. Hank and Mrs. Fitz were comfortable with each other, yet they retained a few certain glances that indicated an unspoken something in their dynamic. Connor knew exactly what that unspoken something was.

When the theatre opened and Mrs. Fitz headed for the restroom, Connor nudged Hank.

“What?” he asked.

“Maybe you won’t be lonely in the house anymore,” Connor hinted.

“You only live with Sophie Friday through Sunday.”

“So now you won’t be lonely on the weekends,” he amended.

“I have my dog!”

As the song went in _South Pacific_ , one of the musicals Sophie made Connor watch, there was nothing like a dame. Connor reminded Hank that.

“Connor,” Hank muttered as they found their seats in the theatre, “I haven’t been lonely since I met you. Promise.”

He smiled to himself. “Neither have I,” he replied.

After they found their seats in the theatre and settled down, Richard leaned over to Connor before the lights dimmed.

“By the way, everything set for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes,” Connor replied. “She thinks we’re just coming over for Sunday brunch.”

“She’s going to love it,” Richard promised.

“Do you think so? I don’t think it’s much, but she mentioned it, and—"

“Not much?” he repeated, flabbergasted. “It’s above and beyond. Much like Sophia. She’ll love it.”

Above and beyond. Like what Connor felt for her.

The lights dimmed. He waited to see Sophie. He should have known he wouldn’t have seen Sophie. The woman who was Sophie but not Sophie wore a green frock, simple and elegant with a fur coat around her shoulders. Her auburn hair pulled up and away from her face with a decorative gold crown on top of her head. That woman, the woman who he danced with and made a home with on the stage was no one but Hermione, queen of Sicilia.

“Do you understand what’s going on?” Richard whispered to Connor a little ways into the first act.

“Leontes thinks Hermione’s child belongs to Polixenes,” he whispered back. “He thinks she’s been unfaithful. But it’s not true, and that’s why Polixenes went away with Camillo in the first scene.”

“Oh. So…Hermione had the baby in the prison?”

“You got it.”

At Sophie’s wish, Connor didn’t read _The Winter’s Tale_ before he saw the show, as Sophie was keen on wanting him to experience Shakespeare the way that was originally intended: on the stage, delivered by actors. Yet he knew before it arrived that her big moment was approaching, one she often spoke of.

“Since what I am to say must be but that, which contradicts my accusation, and the testimony on my part no other but what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me  
To say not guilty,” Hermione began during her trial. “Mine integrity, being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, be so received.”

She stood barefoot in the center of the stage in a white shift, a stark contrast to the finery of the earlier scene. Her makeup was artfully contoured and hollowed her cheeks, making her appeared malnourished. Connor recalled how Sophie said she didn’t think she could do it, do that moment with Hermione on trial, holding him at night a couple of weeks ago. It wasn’t right to say she did manage to do it, Connor thought then as Hermione knelt before Leontes, real tears streaming down her face.

She was. She lived. He felt.

“I that please some, try all,” Sophie said when they came back for the second part of the show. “Of good and bad…”

“Now what’s going on?” Richard muttered. “Why is Sophie on stage now? I thought Hermione died in the last part.”

“This is the infamous time monologue,” Connor replied. “Gabby gave it to Sophie. For symbolism. See, back in Shakespeare’s day, it wasn’t custom for there to be a large time skip in a theatrical production. Even today it’s not very common. So Shakespeare—”

“Connor!” Hank whacked his knee. “We know you’re very smart. Shh!”

Connor shushed and watched the second part of the show that dealt with Perdita, played by Lila. She was Leontes and Hermione’s daughter in Bohemia, who had fallen for the king’s son. Hijinks ensued with the shepherds of Bohemia and a common thief named Autolycus, all of which got a laugh from the audience, deeply contrasting with the grim first act. Connor chuckled too, became enamored and enchanted. He watched it all come together, Perdita reuniting with her father Leontes back at Sicilia, friendships mending.

Then, at the very last scene, there was Hermione.

“Oh, she’s a statue,” Richard muttered. “I get it.”

Connor nodded. “Acute observation Richard.”

“You sarcastic hooligan.”

Chuckling, Connor watched Sophie as Hermione stood perfectly still, like an android could, the only thing betraying her as a human her blinking. Her hair was elegantly pinned again, gold crown around her head. She wore a white dress embroidered with gold threading at the bodice, with long sleeves that hit the floor. Connor recalled how Sophie said she wished her mother would come and see her in the show, because of the mother and daughter relationship present in the text. She was sad, when her mother called and told her she wouldn’t be able to make it—but it was the end of the semester after all, and she was far too busy with grades and other matters to fly from Florida to Detroit, so she was not able to come and see her daughter as Hermione reunite with her daughter Perdita, tears of happiness and not sadness streaming down her face.

“You gods be praised,” Hermione said, eyes drifting upward to the sky as she held her daughter. “and pour your sacred vials atop my daughter’s head.”

Sophie’s mother didn’t see, wouldn’t see. It was alright. Connor watched for the both of them.

They all stood when the play ended. He clapped for them all but he clapped the most for his Sophie. She sparkled as she waved and bowed. For the faintest of moments, she looked directly at him. How beautiful she was, how utterly Sophia and no longer Hermione, who he wanted and needed in his arms. That was his girl.

He darted backstage as soon as he was able.

“Connor, you’ll get lipstick all over your face,” Sophie said as he peppered her with a thousand kisses. “And this is the one that really stays on.”

“I don’t care. Kiss me.”

She moaned into her kiss and he leaned his head back to better be marked and stained by her. He wanted to feel the burn of her lips a thousand years from then.

“Sophie, Sophie you’re beautiful,” he told her. “You were really Hermione. When you were doing that trial scene, talking to Leontes…”

“It was so hard,” she admitted. “It took so long to get right. But I did it. And I get to do it again, and again…”

There was a loud knock on the door. “Sophie if you think you’re going to get laid in costume, you’re wrong! Now get changed and get a room!.”

Sophie gave him a sheepish look at Gabby’s order, shrugging.

“Oops,” he said.

Even though he didn’t want to, he wiped Sophie’s lipstick stains off his mouth and jaw before heading back outside to the others. Like Sophie said, it did take considerable effort, and he didn't even get it all, though he hoped he got enough.

He didn't. When the others saw him, Hank raised his eyebrows at him and Mrs. Fitz chuckled, coming over and straightening his disheveled shirt. “You missed some lipstick,” she said, licking her forefinger and rubbing at his jaw. “Good thing Richard is in the bathroom. I think he’d smack you. But please, do tell me…” She leaned in and whispered. “You don’t do that at the shop do you?”

She wasn’t quiet enough “I don’t want to know!” Hank exclaimed.

“Know what?” Richard asked, coming back from the bathroom, before stopping and thinking for a moment. He decided he probably didn’t want to know either.

Sophie greeted everyone when she changed from her costume, hugging them and thanking them for coming. She still glowed.

“Sophia you were wonderful,” Richard said, patting her on the back as he embraced her. “I wish your mother was here.”

Only Connor noticed it—her face falling ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” she said, “Me too. But…” she brought everyone in a group hug. “You all are here. That’s what matters.”

There was a party going on for cast members at the Dover, but when Richard asked Sophie if she was going to go, she glanced at Connor instead.

“I was thinking of honestly just going home,” she answered. “They’ll have another party anyway later on. What do you think Connor?”

Going home with her sounded perfect. He gave her a thumbs up.

“Good,” she said, grinning. “I’ll tell Lila, Gabby and the others I’ll see them tomorrow. Be right back.”

Three pairs of eyes were on him after Sophie darted backstage, all seeming to ask the same thing, though Connor couldn’t quite place it.

“What?” he asked. “She wants to go home.”

“Connor,” Hank muttered. “Son…you and I should probably—"

“Okay!” Sophie announced, coming through the theatre door. “Thank you all so much for coming. We’ll see you tomorrow Dad, okay?”

“See you tomorrow,” Richard said, eyeing Connor with that same odd look. He thought little of it, not until Hank asked him if they could have a quick talk.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asked when they were relatively alone along the side of the theatre. “I’ll be at the station Monday like I promised. We all sorted it out with Mrs. Fitz, she’s adjusting my hours. And—”

“Connor,” Hank muttered. “I know all that. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

“Hank…”

“Look at me.”

Crossing his arms, he did. Hank didn’t waver. “It’s your duty as a man to be respectful,” he said.

“She’s everything to me,” he told him. He couldn’t imagine being anything but.

“Connor. What I mean is—"

“I know what you mean Hank,” Connor promised. “But it’s not now or never.”

Hank didn’t completely get what Connor meant, but he didn’t have to in order to understand. That was the interesting thing about romance, there were so many different ways to describe the same feeling. 

 

* * *

 

Since Sophie asked Connor to live with her, he grew accustomed to her habits, and even started a few new ones with her. It was true he only lived with Sophie on the weekends, as Hank made sure to note that they hadn’t been together for very long, and since Connor started working at the police station again, it just made sense. (Connor also suspected Hank didn’t want to be lonely, despite what he said.) Even despite all of that, being there and living with Sophie was easy and natural. She made the days brighter and the nights when he didn’t sleep not so lonely. She asked him about it, once or twice, mentioned she thought androids could go into sleep mode. He couldn’t tell her the truth. It was easier to tell her he didn’t sleep.

They tended to read at night, maybe watch a movie together, and when he could, they made dinner together. Even if he couldn’t eat it he enjoyed the ritual of putting things together, liked working with his hands. When they arrived home though, Sophie said she wasn’t hungry.

“You’re not?” Connor asked, and he happened to notice how a sleeve had fallen down her shoulder. He saw himself do the same with the other one, pull it down, and trace the curve of her shoulder.

She made her way to the hallway and turned the bathroom light on. “No, we had some pizza before the show. I nervous ate a whole one. But it wasn’t a large, it was a medium,” she clarified, chuckling as he heard the water faucet turn on. Poking her red head out of the bathroom, he saw she had his toothbrush in her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Brush.”

“Sophie…I promise you I haven’t…”

“Brush!”

He wished Hank wouldn’t have mentioned anything to her about how he checked samples. Now both Sophie and Hank made sure to watch him every night in the bathroom, making sure he was thorough.

He spit out the toothpaste and rinsed, finishing around the same time as Sophie. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for the faintest kiss. He tasted spearmint and chemicals from the toothpaste. He tasted Sophie.

“I’m going to change,” she said, playing with the buttons on his shirt. “Then what do you want to do?”

He eyed the place where her shirt fell off her shoulder, noticed how the same thing was happening with the other. He told her the truth, he just wanted to be with her.

She kissed his cheek. “Alright,” she murmured, her voice syrupy, making promising. “Wait for me.”

Connor waited on the couch, the TV on low. It didn’t take her long for her to come out in her loungewear. It always consisted of a short shift or big bulky sweater that she didn’t bother to wear pants with. Not that he minded when she sat beside him and threw her legs over his lap and hooked her arm around his neck.

“This outfit is awful,” she said. “Don’t laugh.”

Her outfit of the day was a long and baggy blue dress, buttoned at the center, decorated with large palm trees. “It’s a mumu,” she said.

“I like it.”

She grinned. “I think it’s ghastly, but I didn’t wash and this is all I have. At least it’s authentic from Hawaii.”

He traced one of her legs with the back of his hand.Her legs were bare, strong and muscular. Compared to Sophie, Connor was tall and lanky, built to readily and adapt with speed. She was a forging of dips and curves, “squishy” in some places as she said, but he found the dips of her compelling, right along with the curves and the bare skin she held no qualms showing off to his eyes. He continued to caress the dip of her strong calf. She closed her eyes.

He tucked her hair behind her ear. She shivered, not with cold nor anything else, but the way he was gentle with her. The tip of his tongue lightly traced her ear. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat.

“Connor,” she sighed. “Connor…”

“Sophie, do you want…”

“Hmmm.” She curled closer. “Want what?”

“Do you want us to make love?”

Her eyes opened wide. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, she didn’t do anything other than stare. His heart thundered.

“Sophie, did I say the wrong thing?” he asked, concern building, and fear that no, she didn’t want to. It wasn’t that he would die if he didn’t have her…but, but—

“Wow,” she muttered. “You really did ask that.”

“I wanted to be sure, before…you know.”

“I didn’t expect it to happen when I was wearing this,” she muttered, looking down at the buttons of her frock before sighing, holding his gaze.

“Connor, are you sure?” she asked.

Looking into her eyes when she held his gaze was a bit like making love to her in a way. Something in his mechanical heart (did they ever think when they assembled him he would want…?) flickered and burned. He had been burning, hadn’t he?

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure.”

It wasn’t at first that he knew he wanted to be with her, but it was gradual. He saw things like the curve of her shoulder or the way her hair fanned over the white pillow when they were laying together that made him think of touching, caressing, peeling away her clothes and tracing every part of her with his hands and lips. He read of these things in books, the want and the hunger, the seeking of an end. He didn’t understand that part, the seeking an end. He wanted to be with Sophie and feel a beginning after a beginning with her. Maybe he couldn’t make love to her the way she was accustomed to, but perhaps he didn’t want to make love to her the way she was accustomed to. He wanted her to feel, experience, know. Create.

“Intimacy is…a big step,” she said, molding further to his frame.

“So is moving in together,” he pointed out.

“I want you to be sure.”

He thought for a moment. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I… _uh_ …”

She tilted her head away, though she still held onto him. “You’re not,” he said. “That’s alright. We don’t have to.”

“Can you be honest with me?”

He always was, he promised. She asked him if he remembered that day in the bookshop when they danced. Of course he remembered.

“I swore, we could have…I swore you knew that it was almost like I…” She blushed, briefly looking at the bathroom, (why he couldn’t understand.) before she turned back to look at him. She shared a thousand unspoken things with only her eyes, like she did on stage earlier that night. Only now she was Sophie and not Hermione, and she was with Connor.

“Do you want to be with me Connor?” she asked again.

“Yes,” he replied.

“How so?”

“Everywhere, all the time. At night when we kiss and you make noises.” Especially then. Especially, especially then. He thought of more noises she could make. All so tempting they were. How had he not seen, not known that night when they first met, and they were standing in the snow, how tempting she was?

Her lip mischievously quirked. “I suspect you would know a few things with your vast reading.” Her eyes drifted around the room, and the piles of books that had accumulated on the coffee table and kitchen countertops. She grin was bright.

“I knew before,” he replied. “Some things, at least.”

“Such as?”

“I knew humans made love Sophie,” he informed her. “For procreation, and bonding.”

“Sounds so romantic when you talk like that,” she teased, before turning serious again. "So," she began, "do androids make love?"

“In a way,” he supposed.

“In a way?” she repeated.

The skin of his hand deactivated. He touched her warm cheek, caressed her jaw, still so thankful she did not recoil away.

“Through connecting,” he said. “Knowing, sharing, feeling.” It was why it was wrong to do it with another, why he couldn’t continue with Chloe that night. But something else crossed his mind, something important that he had to tell her.

“We’ll have to make our own way,” he told her.

She took his hand, skin still deactivated. “We have been already.”

There was also something else he had to tell her. “Sophie, I need to tell you that I don’t…well…I…uh…”

“I know.”

He couldn’t believe it. “You know? How?”

“I just did.”

“But how?”

“When we’re spooning in the morning it’s not hard to figure out. Hey though, hey—”

She lifted his chin up. “Don’t be embarrassed. I want to be with you.”

“Even though…?”

“No even thoughs. I want to be with Connor, and you’re Connor.”

“You could have a human Sophie. You could have anyone you want.”

“But I like you the most,” she insisted. “We’ve been through his before, you strange, silly man. And by some strange miracle, you seem rather fond of me yourself.”

They kissed gentle, they kissed hard. He hoped his kisses spoke of how he was the lucky one. He kissed her bare shoulders and he imagined all the other sounds he could bring from her when skin was against skin, beating heart against beating heat. And then he was on top of her on the couch in that dress she detested but he loved and her legs were wrapped around him. For a moment or for forever, they neither kissed nor did anything other than simply be together.

“Can we wait?” he asked softly, playing with the curls of her hair. “I should probably do some more research about this. If we are going to make love…”

He was going to say that some creativity was in order. But Sophie made the radical suggestion, that perhaps what they were doing then was already a form of making love, laying together, being together, being poetry and music together. She was right, of course she was right.

Love was everything Sophie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how much of a dork he is but I love him.


	33. When it Bloomed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I had this scene planned for forever, I hope you like it <3

“Sophie, Sophie, wake up…”

Connor, in his most becoming, the morning light, caressed her damp cheek as she stirred. “Hey,” she murmured, holding the hand that held her cheek. “What’s the matter?”

His brows furrowed in concern, he noted she had been crying in sleep. She eased his concerns that something happened during the night. It was only a dream that made her tear a little, she assured, and not even a nightmare at that. Crying in sleep, tearing up a little happened sometimes. She told him she dreamed a bit of her mother. That was what did it.

The full dream flooded back. She was little again, and her mother wasn’t a teacher or an adulterer, not even a woman, and only her mother, who Sophie loved as she loved back. In her dreams she came to her show and saw her live her dream. She saw her happy with Connor and accepted him.

“I wish she was there last night,” Sophie admitted, wiping the last tear.

“I’m so sorry Sophie,” he said.

She outstretched her arms. He was there now. “Come here,” she asked him.

Her ideal was him on top of her. Not pining her down but keeping her safe and sound, the feeling of him all around and everywhere. It occurred to her, like it occurred to her most times she was with him, how she could have done it right then. Rip off his clothes, have him rip of hers. But she wanted him sure, and he wanted to do more research first. Nerd and dork, that saw the necessity to research. Hers.

He kissed her damp cheeks, careful against her and shifting his weight so he wouldn’t be too heavy on her. He couldn’t have weighed all that much everything considered, making his gentleness sweeter. Though tall, he was a beanpole, and if anything he would have been the same weight as a human male of his same height. Even so he was gentle, and he never forgot the differences between Sophie and himself. He kissed the most human parts of her, loved those parts the hardest. Even her tears. Especially the tears. He kissed the corner where they fell, softly and sweetly and reverently. It occurred to her he had never cried before, or at least, she didn’t see him cry before. Even in his deepest sorrow, Am I a replacement? There was no hint of a tear.

“Have you ever cried Connor?” she asked suddenly.

“Once,” he admitted, his head buried to the crook of her neck. “I don’t like it.”

“Really?” It was odd to her that androids could cry. Where they designed that way, or was it innate through living? “I find it therapeutic when I cry,” she continued. “Sometimes I think it’s necessary.”

“I don’t know. It seemed to me like unnecessary leaking. I don’t like it. I don’t want to do it again.”

“Why did you cry?”

When he didn’t answer, she kissed his nose. He kissed her lips. Their morning turned into kisses and sighs, Sophie savoring the something wonderful in merely laying and being together, making love even if they weren’t making love. They were at their beautiful before, a time she wished she and Anthony could have savored. Instead it was instantaneous, their first time almost a week after they declared themselves a couple. It was a quiet, lazy afternoon, their time together over quickly. She didn’t come, though it wasn’t the sole fault of his. He didn’t ask, only assumed, yes, but there was nothing wrong with being vocal, with asking. And there was Connor, already asking.

“Sophie. I have something I want to show you today.”

“What something?” she asked. “Is it something at the park? Oh, is it a dog park?”

“No,” he said with a small chuckle. “It’s at your father’s house.”

“Did you two buy the chocolate croissants I like from the shop for brunch today?”

“Well, you’ll see.”

“Is it food related at all? Because that banana pancake recipe I found would be good too.”

“You’ll see!” He exclaimed, getting up from the bed. “Now come on, get ready. I can’t wait to show you.”

He was positively boyish, grinning from ear to ear. She remembered when he first began to smile, and how subtle it. He had learned how to unabashedly grin.

“Hey, you get ready too,” she said, motioning to his outfit, the cotton pajamas she bought him. He may not have needed sleep, but he enjoyed his nightwear. In general, Connor enjoyed wearing clothes that suited him. Pajamas suited him in a way he wasn’t initially used to, but couldn’t get enough of once he discovered how pleasant loungewear was. She already ordered more for him, a pair of silk ones at that. He would love it.

They changed the way they always did, back to back in her room. Sophie had only one closet. Connor’s clothes, though sparse as they were when compared to hers, had to both fit along with Sophie’s expansive wardrobe in the tiny thing. After Sophie grabbed a familiar pink dress that kept her shoulders exposed, choosing it especially for Connor, he grabbed a pair of jeans and a blue button down. She didn’t know how they began the changing ritual, it just made sense to change in the same room, rather than scurry off to change in the bathroom. She wasn’t exactly shy about her breasts or her bare ass, (though she did want Connor’s first full look to be special and not something that happened while they were just changing,) there was an unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t look at each other as they changed. Once though, Sophie happened to angle her head at just the right moment to find him pulling up his pants, his bare back and other parts exposed. He didn’t notice she noticed, much less notice she liked what she saw. But she did. A lot.

“One minute,” she said after they were done, sitting at her vanity so she could brush her hair and put on some light makeup. As she worked he came near her and toyed with a few open products, a light and springy nude eyeshadow palette and a few pots of blush. He was fond of her different colored lipsticks, but overall, he didn’t understand makeup, something he informed her a few times before. Even so, he watched with rapt interest as she applied her foundation and eyeshadow.

“You’re already beautiful, you know that right?”

She looked at his reflection in the mirror. “You’re supposed to think so,” she said, blushing.

“I would have thought so anyway,” he insisted.

“To tell you the truth I like the way I look without makeup,” she informed him, doing the finishing touches and applying a fuchsia lipstick. “But I always admired the artistry behind it. That’s why I do it, for the art.”

“Like most things.”

She chuckled. “Yes, like most things. But you know, before a show, doing my makeup helps me get ready, and before a regular day, it does the same thing. Hey, come here.”

She took one of her blush brushes, coated it in one of her rosy pink blush colors and lightly dusted his cheeks with the faint glow. She pecked the tip of his nose. He left a longer, more dizzying press to the crook of her neck. She mewled. She rose and she wrapped herself around him.

“Sophie?”

“Yes?” she asked, fingers grasping his shirt, with a desperation she wasn’t used to.

“I want you a lot.”

She coiled closer, drifting him back in forth in her arms. “Hmm. I want you a lot too.”

“I didn’t ever think about this. I didn’t know this would be possible.”

She paused. “Is it overwhelming?”

“It’s a lot.”

“It’s a lot for me too,” she confessed.

“But you’ve done this before. I thought you would know and understand.”

The truth of the matter was she did, but she didn’t. The past was all too much, too soon. Never did they once stop and breathe and ask. With Connor she would rather take it slow than rush. Better to take it slow anyway, and savor. They had all the time in the world.

“We’re learning together,” she promised. “We’ll spend forever learning.”

He smiled again. “Forever.”

She tugged at his shirt, took his hand. “Come on. What was that something you wanted to show me?”

 

* * *

 

 

They took the bus to her father’s house, but there was one caveat: Connor asked her to close her eyes until he told her it was alright to open them.

“Close my eyes? Why would I do that?”

“Please? You won’t fall. I’ll take you there.”

When they got off the bus, Connor offered to carry her over, bridal style, much like he did the night she was sick. It wasn’t too far to the house from the bus stop, she assumed he would just hold her hand. As much as she enjoyed being carried by him, she didn’t want anyone to see them and happen to think they were weird.

“We are weird,” Connor said. “Let’s embrace it.”

He outstretched his hands. His cheeks were pink, both from the color of the blush she put on, and his own natural color. They were weird. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. So she let him pick her up and carry her home.

“Don’t peak,” Connor said. “I wanted to do something, and one night when I was talking to Hank, it hit me,” he said as she buried her face into his shirt, eyes clamped shut. “I know it’s not much, but I wanted to do something, and…well…”

He stopped, and he set her down. “I don’t know if you’ll like it,” he said, taking her hand. “But…I don’t know. It’s something.”

She kept her eyes closed. “Connor? What did you do?”

“I tried to…well…” He paused. “Ah. Open your eyes.”

The sun was bright, it took her a minute to adjust. She thought it was sunspots at first, the mind playing a trick. But it was no trick. She saw. She was flying.

She didn’t say anything, not at first. She remembered what Connor said earlier, about all his feelings and being overwhelmed. He had overwhelmed her too, with his kindness and his unabashed wonder and the way he cared. But this…this…planting hibiscus flowers around her father’s house…hibiscus flowers exactly like the ones that grew in Hawaii, at home…

“Sophie,” Connor said, taking her hand. “I’m sorry if—”

“Connor.”

She flung her arms around him, deluged him in a thousand kisses, and she was giggling and soaring and free when he lifted her feet off the ground and spun her around. She was home.

“Connor…I can’t believe it. It’s beautiful…Oh Connor…you… _Connor!_ ”

Her body slid against his, her feet planted back on the ground. A long digit of his wiped a tear away from the corner of her eye.

“You’re crying,” he said. “No, I didn’t want that. Sophie…”

“I’m happy,” she said, taking his hand and kissing it. “Connor, you’ve…you’ve made me the happiest I’ve ever been. But…but why would you do this? How did you do this?”

“Well, did you know that you can ship hibiscus and plumeria flowers from Hawaii?”

Her dad, coming out of the house, walked down the steps with a smaller potted hibiscus plant in his arms.

“Yes,” he said. “Sorry Sophia, I know you don’t like to be hoodwinked, but I thought this was necessary. He was going to do at your apartment, but your landlord is obnoxious, so he did it here. However…”

He handed the potted hibiscus it to Connor, who handed it to Sophie. “A small one, for your apartment,” Connor called it.

She took it from his hands. “Our apartment.”

Her father didn’t want to see the show, Sophie smooching her lover in the front yard in front of the hibiscus flowers, so he opted to head inside. Sophie was going to smooch him forever until his entire face was fuchsia.

“I know, when it comes down to it…I don’t know everything,” he said when she paused. “And you’re right. We’re learning, all the time. But…” He inched closer, their foreheads pressed together. “I know you do make me happy. And I wanted to make you happy too.”

Just as Hermione on stage at the end of _The Winter’s Tale_ opened her eyes and was renewed, Sophie opened her eyes to the small garden of pink hibiscus, and was also renewed. And, she realized as she kissed the man she had fallen for, she was no longer overwhelmed. She couldn’t be overwhelmed, when caring for him, loving him, wasn’t only easy, but innate.

How easy he made it to love him. How wonderful he had made their life together.

“You’ve made me happy every day Connor,” she promised.

“Even when I was gone?”

“Well, maybe not then,” she contested, giggling. “But you came back.”

He took her hand. “I belong here. I won’t let that go. Not again.”

On the tips of her toes, she stood and she kissed his cheek. “And I belong here, home, with you. Connor. Thank you, thank you, for bringing me home.”

She soared in his arms when he lifted her in the air again. She peppered his cheek and his jaw. He laughed, and he laughed, not the chuckle she was accustomed to, but the great and merry laugh of a man in love.


	34. Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise at the end <3

She gave him the journal not long after he gave her the gift of her home. A place to enter the wonderful secrets of his mind, she said. The journal saw the rest of April, then it saw May. He recorded the goings on at the DPD, the end of _The Winter’s Tale_ and Sophie as Hermione’s final show. He watched her when she held her daughter Perdita for the final time, held her husband Leontes’ hand and forgave him. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. He remembered after the performance that she was his and it was like he was falling but knew exactly where he was going to land. He wrote it all down in the journal she gave him. He remembered everything but sometimes he swore he couldn’t make sense of everything until the words were on the page.

Sometimes, she was his words, his page with the wonderful secrets of his mind. Most of the time.

That was another thing—time was so human, but he measured his life that way because she did, and he measured his living by her routines that soon became his routines, while making new ones that were wholly his own. Work Monday through Wednesday at the DPD, the bookshop on Thursday and Friday. Long date nights Friday, sleeping on Saturday and Sunday brunch at Sophie’s fathers. He liked their routines. It was human, it was living, it was theirs.

Things were a little different one early Saturday morning, though Sophie was asleep next to him as always. They were going to a wedding that day.

Because he couldn’t help himself, he smoothed a lock of hair away from her face. He kissed her shoulder blade.

“Soph,” he muttered, “there’s a wedding today.”

It was her friends Lila and Ian’s nuptials, and they were going to celebrate, and dance all night long. That was what promised him the night before. She never broke promises.

She stirred, rubbing sleep from her eyes and stretching. “You’re right.”

She closed her eyes again, stretched idly and pulling the blanket past her shoulders. “Sophie, you told me to get you up at this time,” he said.

“Forget what I said, would you?”

“We have to drive to Ann Arbor.”

“Blah.”

He kissed her shoulder again, gently squeezed her arm in the way that made her shiver. “Sophie…”

“Alright, alright…I’m up.”

She took longer to get ready than he did—but all he had to do was put on his suit and finger comb through his hair. As it was an outdoor wedding, he went with Hank’s advice and wore the suit without a tie. He waited on the couch, idly stroking Tybalt as Sophie milled around and readied herself.

One hour later, after the fall of the shower’s water, the rumble of her hairdryer, and humming to herself as she put on her makeup at her vanity, she emerged barefoot from the hallway to living room in her new dress, and asked him as she grabbed ahold of the skirt of her dress and sashayed around what he thought, how did she look. He thought a lot of things, like how enticing the curve of her hip was, how he could kiss her for ages, but she wanted an opinion on the new dress she bought for the occasion, so he told her the truth: it was beautiful. It was a mint green with small straps, decorated with pink flowers. She wore her hair loose and big, as was her standard, and she smelled of the fresh tuberose and jasmine extract of her perfume. Pink blush splashed her cheeks, darker pink stained her lips and would later stain his.

He thought so many things. She was music, she was songs. He wanted her even though he had her, but he wanted her more.

He told her she was beautiful.

“You’re handsome yourself,” she said. “Let’s get out of here and turn some heads.”

She sat next to him, pulling out her shoes from the side of the couch. He wondered if she had ever been to a wedding before. He asked.

“Couple of cousins when I was young,” she replied as she buckled the back of one strappy high-heeled pink shoe. “My favorite was my cousin Leilani’s, it was a beach wedding. Great luau food. Kalua pig, lomi-lomi salmon, couple of chicken dishes for the non-Polynesians in attendance.” She chuckled. “There was a big tent set up on Sunset Beach, and a few friends of the family played music.”

“Sounds nice,” he muttered.

“It was,” she agreed as she put on the other shoe. “Leilani was beautiful. She didn’t wear a veil, only flowers, and this simple white flowy dress. No shoes. I guarantee you Lila will probably have the best pair of shoes.”

He wondered what Sophie would wear to her theoretical wedding, if it would be modern or something akin to her preferred nineteen forties and fifties periods, though at least he didn’t have to guess on the color she would pick. He thought she too would wear flowers in her hair. He thought she would be beautiful no matter what.

As they left Tybalt ample food and made sure the balcony door was cracked a bit so he could mill in and out, Sophie explained how traditionally in Hawaii, the bride danced the hula for the groom.

Connor remembered the photos Richard shared, of a little Sophie in her uniform. “Didn’t you take hula lessons?” he asked as she looked for her purse.

She picked it up from the kitchen table. “A while ago I did.”

“Can you show me?”

The purse fell back to the table. “Show you?”

He didn’t understand. “Please?”

She didn’t say anything. He apologized if he was too demanding, too assuming.

“No,” she assured. “It’s only…”

He wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, suggest anything, so he went to her side and kissed her forehead. She said one of the things she loved about him was when he asked her things, wanted to know about her life before, her home, her soul, he meant it.

“You know, I’ve never had to hold back, pretend with you.” She kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “You want to see? Well…”

She kicked off her shoes before heading back to the living room. Then she bent her knees and danced to an unsung song. He couldn’t hear it, but he saw the ocean waves, the sun against the water, felt the sand underneath his feet as her arms glided and she turned her palms upward. He never understood until that moment what she always said, that hands weren’t only hands. But she gestured to the sky, to the ground, made imaginary flowers with her hands. Then he came near, and she erupted into laughter as she fell into his arms, saying she would have shown him more, maybe some Tahitian style dancing—but it involved a lot of hip motions and she didn’t want to get sweaty before they had to leave.

As she sat back down to put her shoes back on, she looked at the hibiscus plant. A bloom had fallen. She picked it up off the ground and asked for one more minute.

She returned, and the pink bloom was pinned to her hair. He told her she was beautiful, but he left out the fact that he really, really wanted to see more hip motions later after the wedding when they were alone.

* * *

 

They drove to Ann Arbor in her mustang. It was her first long car trip since Anthony’s death.

They talked about how it happened before, and she even had a few trial runs in the car before with him by her side. She shook at first, but then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and drove. She confessed she thought she shouldn’t have been so afraid—she wasn’t the one driving that night. She wasn’t even with Anthony in the car at all when his car rolled over.

It took her a year. She was ready again.

“It was an automatic car,” she mused on the way out of the city. “Not even one like this. I was still so afraid.”

He told her Hank and Cole were in an automatic car when the accident happened. Hank hadn’t been in one since. “No one can blame you,” he promised her.

She sighed. “My mother certainly can. She told me I shouldn’t live in fear.”

He didn’t think he should say it. He did anyway. “Your mother sounds a little—"

“Insensitive? She can be,” she admitted with another deep sigh. “She doesn’t feel things as deeply as I do.”

He made another confession. “I wished she could have seen your play.”

“She said she may come down, or I’ll visit her, one of those.”

“But Sophie, your play was incredible. She should have been here.”

“Dad was there, Hank and Mrs. Fitz was there…you were there. That’s what matters.”

He didn’t want her sad, he wanted her happy. Especially when wedding days were supposed to be happy days. To see her smile he asked if they could play Hawaiian music on the way, and she indulged him with a playlist. A few songs in he could imagine her home the way she must have seen it. It was beautiful.

He told her he was equipped with twenty-seven languages a few songs in, but Hawaiian wasn’t one of them, which was a shame, he found the language musical.

“Rude,” Sophie muttered.

He recalled her interest in French pastries, and the little poster of Paris she had next to her _Hamilton_ poster in the living room. “ _Mais, je parle francais_ ,” he muttered, adding, “ _ma cherie_.”

She snorted. “ _Tres bien, mon cher._ Save that for later. That might be…interesting.”

The music made her happy, but it also made her long for home. He could tell by her dreamy and far off eyes that still were present with him when she turned to him at red lights. Reminding her of home, taking her there without taking her there had become everything he wanted.

When they were near the venue, she turned down the music to concentrate and find parking. The wedding began at noon at the Matthaei Botanical Gardens, and the two managed to find a space to park the car thirty minutes before, heading over to the pavilion after where the ceremony took place. They grabbed a seat next to Gaby, who like Sophie wore long floral dress and kept her big hair, though her dress was purple and pink. She hugged the two of them, went on and on about how lovely they looked.

“You look lovely too!” Sophie exclaimed.

“Shut up, I look fat.”

“You shut up, fat isn’t synonymous with bad looking.”

“So you do think I look fat?”

“Not really, but even if I did…”

“Oh thank god you’re here!”

Someone, Connor suspected a bridesmaid by her lilac colored sleeveless dress and small bouquet, came to the three of them and asked Sophie if she could meet Lila in the women’s dressing room, because there had been a situation with her “flower crown veil falling apart,” and since Sophie mentioned once to Lila that she could make leis and flower crowns, she was the only one who could fix it.

“I’m coming,” Sophie said, rising, “I’ll be back soon. Now let’s get this situated….”

In the meantime, Connor asked Gaby how she was doing.

“Fine, fine,” she replied. “How are you? You seem really happy.”

“I do?”

She nodded. “I see some marks of love in you.”

His two humans, Sophie and Hank, both had the talent of radiating whatever mood they held in their general demeanor for all to know. He didn’t used to feel, or if he did, he wasn’t aware and existed as a wall of ice, manufactured human emotions because it was what he had to do. Since planting himself beside Sophie he allowed himself to feel, observed every different emotion she brought from him.

He was glad others knew, glad others saw that what he felt was real.

“I think you want to stand beside her in holy matrimony one day.”

“I’m beside her already,” Connor replied, though he did wonder about the day, what all it would entail, how happy they would be…

They were surrounded by wildflowers. She was his favorite one.

“If she would have me…” he said, and he thought of what a beautiful, beautiful day they would have by the beach. “She would look beautiful in a white dress.”

“ _If she would have me_ …” Gaby repeated. “God you’re too good to be true. I swear, you and Sophie are so saccharine you make me want to cry.”

He apologized. She told him it was just her problem, being “single and all.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Connor assured.

“I don’t know. Been single for forever. Except—”

It was stupid, she said, though he doubted it. But she told him anyway there was an android she used to spend time with, and even though it was impossible, she thought, really thought, that he was always happy to see her.

“He was,” Connor said. “I promise.”

Sophie came back and said everything was fine with the bride, she just needed some wire to restring the flowers on her veil. The ceremony started not long after, the groom and groomsmen taking their place. Lila walked down the aisle with her mother and her father in a dress with the longest lacy train Connor had ever seen, looked at Ian like he was the brightest one in the room. He cried when he saw her. They took hands and they exchanged vows they wrote themselves, speaking of the summer they met, the life ahead of them. She told him she loved him with so much of her heart that none was left to protest, like Beatrice told Benedick in _Much ado About Nothing._ They kissed.

He took Sophie’s hand. She smiled at him. Humans were so ceremonial. Connor thought maybe, for one moment, if you loved someone the way Lila and Ian evidently did, that would be enough. Maybe it was for many. He could make it enough for him.

But getting to tell the world, shouting it from the rooftops, _I love her, I love Sophie…_

And she would look beautiful in a white dress with a pink hibiscus in her hair.

 

* * *

 

The day was a whirl of meeting people, congratulating, and music underneath a canopy tent. They were surrounded by flowers, Sophie was the prettiest of all of them.

The bride and groom thanked him for coming, apologized when they asked him if he enjoyed his food.

“No, but Sophie and Gaby did,” he assured them, as they decided the small portion of steak wasn’t enough to satisfy them, so they shared Connor’s untouched plate. Ian also thanked Connor for carrying him home after his bachelor party, even if he did “toss him over the shoulder like a rag doll.” Connor said it was no problem, he was thrilled to be invited as it was.

“Thank you so much Sophie,” Lila said, embracing her. “For earlier, and also, the pep talk last week. You were right. It would be a shame not to marry him.”

“I can’t believe you wanted to call off the wedding,” Ian muttered.

“Not call it off, but wait,” Lila said. “And it wasn’t you, it was me…”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “Hey Benedick and Beatrice. that show ended months ago. And you’re married now, enjoy it!”

“Really,” Lila chimed back. “Thank you Sophie. You always know the right thing to say.”

“Hey, Lila. I’m glad we’re friends,” Sophie said, giving her another embrace. “I wasn’t sure if you liked me ever, but…”

“I love you Sophie. You’re not afraid to be you. I always wished I could.”

She grinned. “Hey. You found someone to be you with.”

Lila regarded Connor with a fond half grin. “So did you.”

Later on, the bride and groom danced to the band’s music. For the two, they played a soft version of “Five Hundred Miles.” It was the song they sang to each other at the karaoke before they dated officially, Sophie muttered to him, important to them because it began it all.

“Like _Hamilton_ for us?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Actually, we have several special songs.”

“Let’s find more.”

“Always.”

After the slow part finished and the tempo increased, everyone was invited to the floor to join, where Sophie flew up and grabbed both his and Gaby’s hand. They huddled in a small circle together, jumped and danced and pranced, Gaby claiming she had never seen anyone jump so high. Song after song, some he knew and some he didn’t, he saw Sophie whirl and twirl, and when he asked if she was tired yet, she shouted she had every intention to keep her promise and dance all night. Connor laughed, and he laughed.

She flew in his arms after and kissed him hard. “I love your laugh,” she said.

“I lo—"

“Hey Sophie!”

Ian tapped her on the shoulder, said his ten-year-old brother thought she was pretty when he saw _The Winter’s Tale,_ and wondered if she would do him the honor of dancing with him. She couldn’t say no to that.

Alone, Connor asked Gaby to dance with him, just as one of the better songs played.

“I’m shocked you like ABBA,” Gaby said as he took her hands and they bounced up and down.

“If you aren’t happy after listening to ‘Dancing Queen,’ you’re clearly a robot.”

Gaby burst into laughter.

He danced another dance with her after, a slower dance to the band’s rendition of “How Deep is your Love.” He took her on a slow glide, and as they glided, she asked him if she could ask a personal question.

“I don’t mind,” he replied.

“Oh, good. Okay. Well. I was wondering before, did you ever consider…”

“Consider what?”

Something in her blinking eyes made him wonder if he should already know. “Considered a romance. Falling in love.”

He repeated her words, repeated them dreamily. Falling in love, a romance. He promised Sophie he wouldn’t fall.

“No,” he said. “I was a machine. Machines can’t fall in love.”

“Did you know about it? Dream about it?”

It has been a half a year since the Revolution. If he recalled his state of mind back then, he could remember black and white. Gradually there was color, started by Hank and even further when he met Sophie. He was removed from that Connor yet still uncomfortably aware he was that Connor who saw no color, saw only the string of objectives programmed into a system that took the appearance of a man but wasn’t a man.

“Machines don’t fall in love,” he said again.

“But you’re not a program anymore. If you ever were.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just living now.”

“Do you like it?”

He glanced at Sophie, giggling with Ian’s little brother who shared his blonde head, though was a couple feet shorter. She took his hands and she laughed as she kneeled so he may turn her around in a dramatic flair. She lived so vibrantly, held the rays of the sun. And she wasn’t selfless with her rays, she gave them to everyone. She gave them to him.

“I like living with her,” he said. “And to answer the earlier question, no, I didn’t think about it at all. I didn’t know. But when we met, she meant something to me. She meant a lot, and then one night I thought kissing her would be really nice. Then she did, and it was so much more. But it’s not just kissing her, it’s talking with her, being with her…”

Her. That was simply it. _Her._

Gaby broke the hold of their dance. “Go. There she is.”

She motioned for him to go into her arms. She kissed Ian’s brother lightly on the top of the head, and in the center of a crowd of people, he found her arms the sweetest.

A new song played. They swayed together.

“What song is this?” he asked her. “I like it.”

“I like it too,” she replied. “It’s called “Your Song.” Elton John sang it originally.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it? But…” She peered at him, smiled. “I find you far lovelier.”

The long skirt of Sophie’s dress fluttered as he took her along to the melody. He hoped she didn’t mind he danced more in her eyes than he did anything else when she put her hand over his forged and mechanical heart. He put his hand over hers, silently entreating for it to remain. She closed her eyes. His hand on the small of her back brought her closer to his frame. She always wanted to dance with him to music, but they were always music.

He had to show her their music, but he was no carpenter like her father. Maybe he could learn, but he didn’t have the money to buy the materials for the home he wanted to give. Maybe he could tell her, but he wasn’t an artist or a writer, that was evident from his journal. Maybe one day he would be able to tell her wonderful she was. Until then, maybe the dance would show her—be enough. Gift after gift he wanted to give her, song after song. Her gift was the trust she gave him, his was the promise she wouldn’t ever have to be alone again.

She took his hand so they may drift away from the other couples. She took off her shoes and left them near their table, sighed when the cool grass hit her bare feet. She took off her hibiscus flower that had begun to fall, and handed it to the nearby bride who thanked her and squeezed her hand, somehow sensing a spot of love would happen away from the crowd. He had no art, unlike her, the thought lingering again as she slipped her arms around his neck and stole a delicate kiss. He could make a perfect copy of her onto a canvas, but he could not do as she did with her floral paintings that hung in her home—he couldn’t adequately recreate the way he saw her when she danced or when she kissed him, or when they lived.

“I don’t want this to end,” he said. “Sophie, please don’t make this end.”

Her second kiss was different. Longing and need tempered with a slow press of something that burned.

“Everything ends,” she said sadly. “We make more moments.”

He shook his head. “I have immortal longings.”

Months ago she shared that with him, that quote from _Antony and Cleopatra._ There they were then, she was fire and air, and they were Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, Penelope and Odysseus and so many more, in another form of Sophie and Connor. His favorite. They were a story that wasn’t over yet.

“I can’t do it love,” he muttered.

“Do what?” she whispered, their foreheads pressed together.

“Show you how much I love you.”

“Show me in another way.”

He was no writer. His words were kisses, his words were taking her hand in his while his skin peeled away to his basic form. His words turned into a story of being afraid of dying and falling again, but that fear turning into the unlived life with her, his fear of one day having to live without her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t do it the way I want—tell you how much I love you.”

“I already know.”

He peered down at her. She held his face in her hands.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Let me love you like no one has before, the forged and mechanical man said, for though he wasn’t made to fall in love, he did, and though he knew everything save him was fleeting and brief, that moment in the garden was immortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I hope you enjoyed, this chapter killed me. I also listened to a lot of romance songs, heheh
> 
> art was done as a commission I gifted myself for my birthday IN JULY from my friend @savbakk on tumblrs (thank you again :) ) AND I FINALLY GOT TO INSERT IT  
> anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Next chapter might be a little nsfw, so....<3  
> xoxoxoxox Shakes


	35. When he was there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's middle section is all smut. the first two aren't though :)

Lila’s bouquet didn’t fall into any of the numerous women crowded around her, tittering “me, me!” but instead she miscalculated the velocity to hurl the assortment of pink roses, tulips, and carnations, and the thing missed all of them and landed straight into Connor’s lap.

“Oh,” he said, picking it up, and glancing at the mob of upset women. “I’m…sorry?”

He ended up giving it to Gaby before they left, who held the gift in her hands like it was a precious jewel.

“Maybe it won’t work,” she said. “Maybe since you gave it to me it’s going to ruin everything and I’m never going to get married and—”

“Make it happen,” Connor said. “I know you can.”

They laughed like loons, hand in hand on the way to the car. She wondered who got married, Lila and Ian or Sophie and Connor. Kisses tasted like more, his arms felt like a dream as he wrapped himself around her and buried his head into the crook of her neck.

“What did you say to Lila?” he asked after a moment of gently swaying her.

“Well the other day, when she admitted she was worried she was just doing this because people expected her to, I asked if she loved Ian. She said she did. And then I asked if she wanted to be his wife, and she said yes. I asked her if proclaiming it to the world was something she wanted. It was.”

“I would too,” Connor exclaimed. “I would tell the whole world I love you. Hey, over there... _I love Sophie!_ ”

The people across the way from the wedding politely waved as Connor lifted her into the air and kissed her sweetly again. “I meant what I said,” he muttered between, setting her down. “I do."

She felt it in the way he held onto her, dotted kisses along her shoulder. She shivered. He was everywhere but she wanted more of him. And…

And…

She made the suggestion then, hoping the implications, the hope she had, wouldn’t be lost on him.

“You don’t want to go home?” he repeated. “Where would we go?”

“….a hotel.”

It dawned on him, and he smiled. He told her he was hoping she would ask.

They had no extra clothes, but they thankfully had the foresight to leave extra food for Tybalt, and a slightly ajar door for him to mill in and out. They picked the Bell Tower, not an inexpensive place, but as Connor said, it was only for one night.

He gave her the cash to pay.

* * *

 

She kicked off her shoes after sprawling herself on the bed. The very large and comforting bed, she thought, as Connor took off his shoes and jacket and set it aside. She rose when she felt him sit next to her at the edge of the bed. She longed for closeness. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed their foreheads together.

“Thank you for today,” he said. “It was one of the best.”

She wanted to say thank you for loving me, tell him how wonderful it was that he loved her, but if she did, she knew she would surely cry. She wanted no tears that night, even happy ones. She wanted only togetherness.

“So,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You could…tell me about your research.”

“I could show you instead.”

Promises laid in his kiss against her cheek, then forehead and corner of mouth. Anywhere but her lips, mirroring the little game she played with him in their early relationship, where she wanted to take it slow. They had enough.

But she had to ask. “Do you want me Connor?”

“Yes,” he breathed into the crook of her neck.

She shivered and arched, his lips against her pulse point. “We don’t have to. I don’t want you to think because you said you loved me this is the next step.”

“I would have said it anyway. Sophie. Sophie. _Soph…_ ”

“ _Con_ …”

They embraced each other, and her hands were everywhere, his hands were everywhere. She fiddled with buttons on his shirt and he pulled down her straps. In the moment where one was done and her two straps were off her shoulder and dress zipper pulled down, in their dance of another kind, he whispered “wildflower.”

“Wildflower?” she muttered, temporarily stopping them.

He nearly blushed. “Oh. I said that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I…when we first met you reminded me of a wildflower.”

“How so?” she asked, growing curious.

She loved it when he touched her face, when he held her cheek in his delicate hand. “Because in a field of green, wildflowers pop out. You notice them because they’re beautiful.”

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” he breathed, finger splayed against her covered thigh.

“Only call me wildflower when we’re alone, or when I’m the only one that can hear.”

She was never one for pet names or terms of endearment before Connor. She detested “baby” and found “babe,” even worse, an unfortunate moment in a critical theory class making her question why lovers seemed to infantilize each other when they were together. She told Anthony to never call her that, she was struck Connor never thought to. Darling was a word she heard in old movies, was too embarrassed to say or refer to anyone as such before him. It was her favorite. Always her favorite, before wildflower.

He called her wildflower since they were in the shop together. It was thrilling to have a secret name, so thrilling the thought of others knowing would damper the magic.

No matter what, Wildflower would always be her favorite.

He caressed his cheek and he gave her a knowing smile. “Promise me you’ll show me those hip motions later, my lady,” he said.

“Yes my lord.”

Connor’s hands held a ceremony that befitted the titles they bestowed upon one another as he helped her out of her dress but not fully out of her dress. At first he gazed only at the tops of her breasts, only kissed the bare skin there with reverence and endearment. Out of a more want than habit her hands led her to the buttons of his shirt, and when she thought how close they were, how close they were going to be…

“Sophie.”

His hands stopped her from undoing the buttons. She froze.

“It’s not going to be the same,” he said. “I’m a machine, I don’t—”

“No, you’re not,” she exclaimed, holding him closer. “You’re Connor.”

“It won’t feel the same, after. Holding you. And I don’t—”

“Kiss me you damn fool.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. She was laying on the bed and she was tearing off his shirt and to the side of the bed, running her hands down his bare chest and feeling. Often she held him close at night, though always they were clothed. She loved him close but she loved him the way they were then all the more. She felt the beating of his heart and a slight thrum of working parts circulating blood, not the same color as hers but blood none the less that went to the heart that loved her. He kissed her hard and she dug into his shoulders and back, coiling her legs around him. Skin dissolved underneath her searching hands, and when he took her hand and interlocked their fingers they connected even if they couldn’t connect. Connor, in his most basic form. He told her of his want in the way he kissed her, the way he held her. He kissed her covered stomach, that part of her she detested the most before he kissed her breasts, only moving to them when she broke the ceremony of his gentle kisses against her soft and covered stomach and pushed the dress down further. She wanted him to see.

She bit her lip as he gazed, eyed full of wonder and longing and need. Tentative to touch, but once he swirled his long digit over the gentle curve and heard her moan, saw her arch, he left a warm press against the spot between, made her moan further, and compel her to part her legs.

She hitched up her dress, enjoying the fabric fanned out on their large and expansive bed, forever making the dress one of her favorites, one she would never part with. He asked with his eyes when he gripped her hips, and she nodded and told him “yes right there, yes…” but he only offered a kiss but not a kiss before kissing her thigh and her calf, and gently her ankle until traveling to the other.

Even when she removed her undergarment, he did not kiss there, not yet, though she felt the pool underneath her as his lips moved against her inner thighs. This had never happened before. She thought about it, but she didn’t expect, though perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. He did research. Though that only went so far, she figured as he nipped her inner thighs, teased until she was shaking and clamping her thighs around him and entreating him where she ached. The man was wicked she thought, utterly wicked, but the bed and having him was heaven, and…

His mouth against her was the sweetest sin in heaven.

He alternated and experimented, and she knew her wicked, wicked man was experimenting, so he would be able to do it all over again, and faster next time. Though she liked to be teased sometimes, liked it when time was taken, and that fact registered with him as she wove her fingers through his hair, and he appropriately slowed. She rolled her head against the pillow and threw one leg over him, crying out in pleasure when his ministrations stopped to be replaced by the equally thrilling sensation of his digits. She dreamed about his hands, and when she grabbed a hold of one, needing and wanting his hand interlocked with hers, she felt her wetness against his skin. His skin dissolved, and she was close, on the verge, and then there was his brown eyes asking her to tremble against him. His tongue on her clit and his finger inside her, she came like the high tide and harder than her hand had ever made her come before.

Years of loneliness made her skilled at pleasuring herself. She learned how to come quicker thinking about Connor. In those times she always had to recover, her head against the pillow as she mourned the grim truth that no one was there to hold her after. When he was there, his head still buried between her and bestowing almost healing kisses against her damp inner thighs, the rush of joy revitalized her, renewed her, and she was pulling him up for kiss after kiss.

They became enraptured and entagled, laying on their sides with her leg hooked over his waist. She didn’t know what to say other than thank you, thank you…I love you.

“Connor,” she whispered in between kisses, “did you…?”

“This is eno—no, this is good,” he amended. “Wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

“I want you to feel good too.”

“You do.”

She sighed, blissful and content. “Would you…”

Before she could ask if he could do it again, he was already beginning. He did. And a third time after that too.

* * *

 

She swapped her dress for the hotel’s white robe after waking up, the feel of the Egyptian cotton heavenly against her bare skin, and the down of the blue bedsheets crisp and smooth when she and Connor crawled in. She felt the rhythm of his heart underneath her palms, sighed with a happiness she didn’t think she would ever get to feel.

“Sophie?”

“Yes?” she said, chuckling in her euphoria.

“What do you see next?”

The question surprised her, but she answered truthfully. “Us together,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh. Good. Me too. But what will we do?”

“Maybe eventually you’ll get more hours at the DPD, become a full-blown detective,” she suggested. “And me? Well, I was thinking of getting my masters degree in theatre. Maybe teach. Someday though.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think one day we’ll get married?”

She peered at him. It should have scared her. It didn’t, not at all, and that was what confused and perplexed her.

Yet she didn’t answer, too caught in a reverie, and he misunderstood.

“Soph…” he said, mournfully, and she rectified her error with a thousand kisses

“What if I told you that during the Renaissance,” she began, kissing the corner of his mouth and then his mouth, “that all a couple had to do was say their intent and they were considered married already?”

“But we haven’t said we would yet,” he pointed out.

“No, but you told me you would love me like no one else had before. And I promised I would do the same. I’ll promise again: Connor, I’ll love you like no one else and treasure you each and every day that I live.”

“As will I.”

She squeezed his hand. “Voila. Married. Though we don’t get the tax benefits.”

He played with the ends of her hair. “I don’t know. It would be nice to see you in white.”

“I can buy more white clothes if you think I would look nice.”

He tilted his head against the pillow. She chuckled and kissed his nose. “Someday,” she said. “Someday.”

“I hope so.”

She could have told him the truth, that she used to think about her own hypothetical wedding. Through her young life it alternated between wanting to get married on a hill or in Paris, before finally settling that she wanted to get married on the beach by home with hibiscus and white plumeria in her hair instead of a veil. When she imagined getting married to Anthony she imagined them marrying in his family’s Catholic church. Yet when she imagined marrying Connor, she saw the two of them dancing, the two of them stealing a moment alone.

The best part was they didn’t even have to get married to do that.

But telling the whole world she loved him, a piece of her soul lifting from her and into him…

“Someday,” she promised again. “Someday.”

Before she fell asleep, she had one final mental quandary. “You don’t like…inadvertently sample me when you do that, do you?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “But I like the way you taste.”

“Oh well. Good. Are you sure that—”

“Yes.”

She tapped her fingers against them. “You know, there’s a nice tub in the bathroom.”

“Oh. Did you want to take a bath?”

“I was thinking tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Alright.”

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Can you give me a hint, or—”

“I love you Connor.”

“I love you too.”

She fell asleep with a wicked, wicked smile on her lips, and she fell asleep with thoughts of how he gave and gave, and she was going to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't be stopped next chapter is going to be nsfw too :)


	36. Learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More nsfw. fully because I am thirsty, and have been waiting for this since JUNE. 
> 
> anyway, hope you like :) if not, well...please don't break my heart, lol.

In sleep Sophie was a different woman. A younger version of herself that he still loved and adored, but free of troubles, free of worries, and free. He wished to know what it was like, to close his eyes and drift away from his darting and inescapable thoughts. He wished he could close his eyes and sleep, and not be cold and alone in the garden that used to bring him calm. He learned to have it vicariously through her.

She stirred next to him, a slight _mhmm_ from her lips indicating she was near waking. In truth, he didn’t need a garden, only one wildflower, and when opened her eyes, said “good morning love,” and kissed him softly, he was quiet and calm, floating and dancing.

“There was something you wanted to show me,” he reminded her.

“Wait a minute.”

She took a minute to gather herself and fully wake, check her phone and text Richard the two of them had fun last night, they might be over later depending on what time they got home from Ann Arbor. If they did go to Richard’s would have to go back to their apartment first, check on the cat and change clothes. Stumbling into his house in crumpled clothes would make it all obvious, and while Connor hoped everyone would notice Sophie’s glow that had not been there previously, he also appreciated subtlety, and figured her father wouldn’t want to know. Neither would Hank, he realized with a smile. _Son, you do you, so long as it’s consensual and she enjoys herself, but I do not want to know,_ he said not long ago. _Thanks Dad_ Connor almost replied, but didn’t. He should have.

Gracefully, Sophie left the bed to the bathroom. He couldn’t see what she was doing, and though his curiosity was piqued, he only stretched out further on the bed to the warm space she left behind with the faint traces of jasmine underlaid with alcohol from her perfume, and sulfates from her sea salt shampoo. He heard water start to pour. A few moments later she emerged, and asked him to drift to her side.

“That’s a big bathtub,” he said, standing by her side in the bathroom.

“Hmm,” she agreed. “It has many uses.”

“That’s a big enough tub to bathe Sumo.”

“He’s not here right now,” she said with a laugh. “I was thinking more…”

For the two of them. His heart accelerated, his skin already tingled as he took her hand, his silent and wordless yes. There was nothing he wanted more.

It wasn’t recommended androids take baths or showers, though it wasn’t detrimental to hardware. CyberLife had their own maintenance and cleaning recommendations for costumers, procedures Connor endured. He endured so much. He wanted to forget so much, like the unfeeling process of android decontamination that was emotionless and cold, with the disinfecting chemicals placed to skin and almost burning. He hated it, hated being a thing. Sophie’s hand in his reminded him he wasn’t a thing.

For humans, showers and regular bathing was a necessity, though he knew Sophie loved taking showers, told him numerous times how much she loved the water and one day she hoped to take him swimming somewhere nice. With her affinity toward water, it was only natural she would gravitate toward baths, though her apartment didn’t have one. Of course she would indulge, and want to indulge with the one she loved now.

She poured a liquid bubble bath down the water, tinting it rose pink. Bubbles emerged. She ran a hand through the water before she came near him again

He tugged at her robe. She certainly looked stunning in it, but she certainly couldn’t go in the tub with it on. In turn, her fingers played with a belt loop.

“You’ll have to take this off too,” she said.

The night before, the feeling of the soft fabric of her dress against skin committed to his memory, stored their so he may replay it when he wished. They didn’t speak before of keeping their clothes partially on as they made love with each other, but as she tried to help him, and fear seized him, stopping her hands, he understood part of it was he didn’t want her to see. She already knew, said it didn’t matter…but _seeing…_

If she didn’t like, if she recoiled…

He couldn’t endure that from the one he loved.

“Connor…”

She wrapped her arms around him, the slow and lazy drag of her nails against his back a tingling hum. Her cloth robe was soft but her skin was softer, he wanted to feel. It was the same for her. They were both nervous, he detected a spike in her heart rate. They shouldn’t have been, not when they had already bared so much. Yet knowing she was nervous made it not seem so scary, kissing her eased it further. How beautiful it was, he thought, to be loved and wanted as another soul, and amidst the slow and lazy kisses that followed, her robe fell to the floor, and he stepped out of his trousers.

He had a thousand lines for her varying in sweetness and romance but all bordering on too saccharine. Queen of my heart, goddess of the sun and love of my life, moon and stars of the night. All utterly ridiculous he had to have a laugh at them, but what better to tell her something akin to what she was to him than not say it at all. She chuckled at the names, told him she liked them, and for a moment, naked together with their arms around each other, they simply enjoyed being. To see Sophie bare and to be bare himself and have her in his arms was a sacredness he could grow accustomed to with the ease of learning how to walk, but he would never want it to be a routine. Surprise her always. That was what he wanted. He had no religion, never was drawn to the utterings of RA9 as others of his kind were, but like some humans needed the comfort of a holy book and gathering in a church, it was the same with some of his people and RA9. He needed no religion until he stood with Sophia and realized she was his.

He moved her against the wall, caressing with his hands and with his mouth and with his everything. A soft intake of breath against her lips as he kneeled and kissed her on the places she always tried to hide, the places she drew attention to when she danced around the apartment to the “exercise videos,” she played. He looked upward to see her, because that was his dilemma when they were together—wanting to please her and make her happy, but wanting to see her bloom, wanting to see her happy. He thought he could come with both, with feeling her tremble and say his name in bliss, with seeing her flushed and rosy and with soft eyes that beckoned him for a kiss.

She muttered several curses as he spread her thighs and tasted her. He loved the way she tasted. It was chemicals and different components, but it was mostly her, and her body tasted similar against his tongue as he skimmed up her body after her thighs trembled around him and she came. There was the faint taste of salt on her skin, salt from sweat and sun from yesterday. She tasted like sun.

“Connor,” she mumbled as he kissed her, her taste on his tongue passing to her, “Bath. It’ll run over.”

“Oh. Right.”

He got in first, the sensation of the hot water all around foreign, but not unpleasant. She asked if it was too hot, sitting at the edge of the tub, and he shook his head. She stretched, and he admired the line of her bare back, the curve of her breast, and though he could stare for hours he wanted her in his arms more. She sighed as she turned off the faucet and climbed into the water and into his arms, the bath wide enough for her to sit comfortably between his thighs.

“I have a secret,” she revealed. “I wanted to do this with you for a while. At first it was a shower, but I don’t know…I think baths are more erotic, don’t you?”

“A shower?” That would have been heaven too, he imagined, holding her as water fell like rain against them.

“Another time,” she said with a grin. “We have time to learn.”

There was infinite fun in the learning, he thought as her palms spread against his chest. She washed him with a warm cloth, the soap a strong floral rose. He reached to touch her, but she grabbed his hands and brought them over his head.

“My turn,” she whispered in his ear, palms traveling down, caressing his neck, kissing his jawline and corner of his mouth. “I want…” she traced the line of his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, entreating him to part to deepen their kiss. “I want to make you feel good.”

He leaned his head against the edge of the tub, sprawled out in the water with the woman he loved on top of him. He wasn’t made to be touched and he wasn’t made to be loved. When he was forged and assembled it was never asked if he could feel or if he could derive pleasure, or if he would want to do that in another. His revelation he wanted to touch and love her, because he found her to be a woman who deserved to be touched and loved, came along with the comfort and wonder he felt when was near. That feeling of reverent touches such as the ones she gave him then was all so much. No one touched him like that before or told him he could. She never made him feel an object, she made him feel a lover and alive, in a way that seeped into his body and burned, making him understand it would never stop burning, not after a thousand kisses, a thousand times together.

He asked to see those hip motions she mentioned that compelled him so the day previous before they left for the wedding, and he felt the slight sway of her submerged hips against him. It was her subtle reminder she hadn’t forgotten. He moaned into a kiss when her palms and digits grasped his back and kneaded skin, hands moving and doing the same to his shoulders and chest. She caressed to satisfy her own want and to make him feel good. She took his hand from the water, sighed when his wet palm touched her cheek, smoothing away hair and dampening it too. She kissed his wrist, squeezed his hand in her much tinier one, kissed every fingertip. The pad of his forefinger outlined her pink and swelled lips from kissing him, traced that tantalizing curve of her cupid’s bow. She opened her mouth and he slid his finger inside, teeth grazing over a knuckle. Under the water his other hand compelled her to part for him. He grazed his finger against her and pressed harder when she gripped his shoulder. She came around his fingers and she stole another hungry kiss from him.

He couldn’t say how, or when it gradually transformed from a slow dance to something that wasn’t fast but wasn’t slow either, but there was a thousand tiny electrical shocks all over his body, tingling and like lighting, and Sophie was fire and air as his skin deactivated and dissolved away against her loving hands. He sought no end when he was with her, only beginning after beginning, but as she kissed and worshipped and made him feel as alive as any man who loved and needed to express it not with his words but with his body and soul, he felt his body that knew himself better than he reach for an unknown finale. He closed his eyes and felt himself soaring, unafraid of where he would land…and she was welcoming him into her arms and into her kiss as he groaned into her embrace. The sound was erotic to her, _yes,_ she exclaimed, hot and heavy and breathing hard as he rose to wrap his arms around her, bring him back from the dead.

He rested his head against the crook of her neck. “I think…I think I—”

“I noticed.”

“Can you do that again?”

It took some time to figure out how that happened exactly, first in the tub again, and then in the big walk in shower the hotel also had in their bathroom. As they washed the bubbles from the bath away Sophie pressed him against the marble wall and learned how it happened, and how she may do it again. But there was fun in the learning. He hoped for a lifetime of learning, and a lifetime of Sophie allowing him to feel not as an object, but a man in love.


	37. The Month of Broken Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey I'm 100,000 words in <3

June was a dream.

The term “fucking” was such a crass way to put the art of making love, the diminutive “fuck” crass as well, but Sophie couldn’t help but scream “fuck” when Connor fucked her during the month of June. It was a wild month. It was her favorite.

She couldn’t keep her hands off of him. He couldn’t stop kissing her. They could be loud sometimes, inventive, but always passionate. Her floor was a patchwork of clothes they had artfully taken off each other, their bed their own stage. Her body was his temple of worship, his body was her religion. He asked if she wanted more once, a week or two after the wedding. She asked what he meant. He showed her a few things on her computer, some more “research” he did with a few lush websites that advertised objects here and there that promised to enhance lover’s experiences together. More times than she could count with Connor’s head between her thighs and she still blushed like a damn fool when she scrolled through those sites.

“No shame to whoever likes this,” Sophie said, “but…”

Smiling, he understood, and he closed the laptop and carried her to their room where he made her quiver against his face after she gave him a thousand electrical shocks.

Curiosity abounded at the theatre. During their group meeting about the next round of activities and productions, Sophie smiled when attention was drawn to her and her recent shenanigans and romantic entanglements, a line of her dearest friends all with wide eyes and a thousand questions they weren’t going to ask, until Tom did, because of course Tom would have asked.

“Now now,” Sophie said. “A woman never tells.”

In the lady’s restroom there were different tales.

“Does he have a…?” Gaby asked in hushed tones as Sophie washed her hands, Lila suddenly emerging from one of the stalls to do the same.

“Well I don’t think he needs one,” she replied, catching herself in the mirror, seeing how Connor saw her. Beautiful.

“Wait… “ Gaby said, putting the pieces together, “how does he…?”

“Something about wires and circuitry when he gets excited,” Sophie replied. “Or at least I would imagine. It’s not as though the people at CyberLife expected him to have a great romance, but….” She giggled. “We make it work.”

“Wow,” Lila muttered. “You must bring the whole apartment down.”

“Just partially,” Sophie said, feeling him shiver in her arms, feeling his orgasm against her naked body. “He looks adorable when it happens,” she mused, “like he’s exhilarated after a race and he’s happy he won. He laughs too.”

She had a picture on her phone of his nude body barely covered in her white sheets, a long leg poking out. He was sprawled out on the bed, a wide grin on his rosy face and hair in disarray. A well-fucked and radiant mess. She loved making love to him, rightly more than she thought was legal. Architects spent so long crafting buildings, but the true wonder was in God’s architecture. And there was Connor. Not a product of god or nature but a product of man, such a conundrum, but he was beautiful, and he was alive, and she loved his body and the things she could do it. She loved him. She loved him, she loved him and she loved him.

She was also, she admitted to her friends, leaning against the sink, quite a fan of the things he could do to her body. He made her feel like a goddess that was wanted and needed, and every time he muttered softly _I love you,_ she was renewed again.

Yet mostly, it was holding him that she loved the most. In bed with him later that night after they jumped in the shower together after their long days, they massaged that, kissed that, and she laid on top of him and caressed every part of his face. Handsome, she called him. Beautiful like the moon. She could stare at both with wonder for forever.

“I love you,” he said before she fell asleep. He said it every day. People often said those words without meaning it, like they were wishing it was true even though the love wasn’t within reach. Not Connor. Unlike the moon he reminded her of, he let her know he was always within reach, his words and his love always true.

 

* * *

 

Suntanning next to him on their lazy Sunday afternoon after brunch with her father, atop a pink quilt crocheted by her grandmother long ago for picnics in the park, she kicked off her sandals and sighed, grateful that it was summer, grateful to be with the one she loved.

“So, the theatre wants you to direct.”

“Yes,” Sophie said, languishing in the warm sun, white sunglasses shielding her eyes. She fancied herself a moon goddess, but she had to admit what Connor pointed out, the sun suited her more.

“What do you think?”

She shrugged. “Well, we all have this plan for the Fall. A play showcase. Ian, John…lots of people actually, have had this play in their head for quite some time. So they plan on writing and acting in it, then getting one of us to direct. I thought, ‘hey sure, it could be me.’ Then it escalated into us doing a whole play festival. We’re even asking for submissions from the general public. So have a play you always wanted to write? Maybe we’ll pick it and I’ll get to direct it.”

“I get to write it every night,” Connor said, mischievous grin on his lips. “You’re a great director, with all your ideas.”

“ _Oh you_.”

They laughed into each other’s arms, entwinned in a way that satiated their longings to lay wrapped and entangled, but not in a way that others would pass by and blush and accuse them of public indecency. Connor spoke of his week at the DPD as Sophie toyed with his long fingers in her hand. He and Gavin went on a sting operation that consisted of a stake out at a corner market, it all culminating in a chase down the street were Connor caught the culprit and sent him back to the station. Sophie didn’t understand why Connor had to work with Gavin of all people, because even though he seemed to cool off from his colossally asinine ways, enough so that Hank felt comfortable enough to let him around Connor, Sophie still found it extremely insensitive.

“He’s fine,” Connor assured. “He only calls me ‘tin man’ every once and a while.”

“Connor.”

“What? Maybe I am a tin man. He found his heart, didn’t he? And you’re right here.”

She squeezed his hand, kissed it, and though her heart flopped, overwhelmed by his sweet words, she also inwardly wished he wouldn’t be so self-deprecating. They were any other couple, and though it struck her that their intimacy would have likely been referred to as odd by the general public, it was natural to the two of them, so much so that she imagined it should be like that for every couple: full of laughter and passionate kisses.

Yet his expression darkened again, before she could speak of how their relationship was theirs and theirs alone, and she had to ask him if something else happened at the station.

“Oh. No. It’s…” He paused, continuing again. “There’s been…concerns, about us. Our people.”

“What kind of concerns?”

He struggled to answer, finally settling with “issues of public safety.” He didn’t have to go on, Sophie was more than aware. Almost every night news reporters and late-night hosts held think pieces and interviews, all with the consensus of “will giving androids rights take away from ours?” or “will androids seek to destroy us?”

“It’s alright,” Connor muttered. “They tell me at the station that I’m fine. I’m not like the others. I’m different.”

She heard that in her life. She knew it never felt good. Yet he must have noticed his disposition was too grim, too sad for the beautiful day, that he tried to be cheerier and merry, because he was with the one she loved. Sophie still knew.

“Fowler wants us to see Kamski again,” he said as a matter- of -fact, the two still entwinned.

“Elijah Kamski?” Sophie’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“Fowler things there might be a way to…get the deviants in line, so people won’t be so worried. Maybe he has answers. We find out later in the week. But hey, I was thinking for us…”

The two of them was a far happier topic anyway, and she saw the smile play on his lips, the overall sunnier disposition. The suspense was killing her. “Thinking…?” she prodded, taking off her sunglasses and setting them aside.

“We should get a dog,” he announced, as if it was the best idea he had ever come up with.

“We have a cat,” she said, chuckling. “And you have a dog.”

“He’s Hank’s dog.”

“Half yours though, that’s what Hank says. Mostly yours actually. You bathe him, take him for walks.” They even brought him to the dog park once or twice, “babysitting” while Hank was with Mrs. Fitz. “Besides, I had a dog named Lady. Cocker spaniel. I loved her a lot, when she died I guess I couldn’t really think of getting another.”

“It’s not that you love Lady less,” Connor said. “You just have more love.”

“I love that you read, but sometimes you say all these things,” she said, laughing into their kiss and at his fortune cookie wisdom, hit him with the paperback Stephen King book he brought when he reached around and squeezed her rump, laughing harder. He took the book from her hand and began to read inconspicuously, hiding his shit-eating grin from behind the pages, and for a moment she forgot he was even grim.

Knowing they would have to do a lot of talking, but just wanting to be with him then, Sophie filed it for another day, diving into the picnic basket for her turkey sandwich she brought as Connor read. Earlier they ate pancakes as usual with her father, or she did anyway while Connor watched, but she was under the suspicion that voracious sexual hunger caused other voracious hunger. She also always loved picnics, ever since she was little and her mother and father packed Portuguese sweet bread sandwiches with chips and chocolate chip cookies for a beachside picnic. They weren’t called Portuguese sweet bread in Detroit, instead they were King Hawaiian rolls, but they tasted similar non the less, though they lacked the taste of home.

“We should go to Hawaii,” Sophie said, dreaming of Connor in a beachside sunset. “I want to take you to where I grew up.”

“I would like that. When should we go?”

“Would take a while to plan,” she replied. “We could go anytime though. But remember, my mother called? She wants me to come down for my birthday. I am going to have to see her eventually, it’s…”

“I know,” Connor said, setting the book down. “But you want to go to Disney World, even though your mother wants you to meet her in Tampa.”

“Hey park tickets are cheap right now. We could make a detour for my birthday before driving down.”

“Maybe,” he said, tone teasing.

She did want to go to Disney World an awful lot. She had never been, and taking Connor meant she could be her unburdened and truest self that squealed and cried when she saw the castle and met Ariel. Plus it would give her the disposition needed to face her mother and tell her the truth about how alive Connor made her feel. She was going to need strength to tell her mother she was in love and there was no other person for her. She was going to make her mother see.

“Let’s do it,” Connor said. “Let’s go. But…?”

“They’ll let you in,” Sophie said. “I read a new article. They’re hiring androids. Actually hiring them.”

He softened, because even though things weren’t always the greatest, there was hope.

“Make the arrangements then,” he said.

“I’ll call Mom, and I’ll book us.”

She finished her sandwich and was wiping mayonnaise off the corner of her mouth when Connor stopped her suddenly, told her not to be alarmed, but a woman was staring at them.

“A woman?” Sophie asked, grabbing a cookie from the basket and eating it. “Where?”

He motioned a little to their left. There was indeed a woman, sitting on one of the park benches with a paperback in her hands. Her hair was pulled up, and she wore a white and red summer dress adorned with poppies. Silver threaded her ebony hair, elegantly tied back. Sophie knew the woman immediately.

“Linda,” Sophie said, rising, rushing over in her bare feet to the park bench, “Linda…hi.”

She set the book, a romance novel by the look of it, down on the bench. Typical Linda as Sophie remembered. Whenever she would go over she had a stack of them on her table.

She pushed up her glasses. “Sophie? Sophie! It…oh….”

Linda rose immediately and embraced her, kissed her on the cheek even. “Good to see you,” she, still holding her in her arms. “I thought that was you, I just didn’t want….Well…” She broke the embraced, regarded Connor, still sprawled on the blanket. “You seem friendly with that boy, that was all, and—”

“I haven’t forgotten him,” Sophie promised. “I don’t want you to think that.”

Lina patted her cheek. “I wouldn’t want you to mourn forever Sophie. You deserve to be happy. He would know that too. He would want you to be happy”

Connor waved at Sophie when she turned to see if he was alright. She waved back.

“Introduce us?” Linda asked.

Motioning him over, he came to stand at Sophie’s side, were he offered a small “hello.” Sophie wrapped her arm around him.

“Hello,” Linda said. “What’s your name?”

“Connor,” he replied.

“I’m Linda.”

She shook his hand. Sophie introduced her as Anthony’s mother. Like most people probably wouldn’t know what to say, neither did Connor, but he smiled politely, told her he heard Anthony was a wonderful actor and a good friend. Linda agreed, he was, because it was true, he was.

After the awkward silence, she complimented Connor’s good looks. “You look a little in love,” she said to Sophie.

“I am,” she replied, knowing it was the truth, glad others saw it as well, though she knew what Linda was going through was something no one should go through. “He makes me very happy.”

“She’s a special girl,” Linda said to Connor, telling a secret about Sophie even though she was there.

“I know,” Connor bragged, making Sophie blush.

Linda regarded the two of them. Sophie, though tall and ungainly as she felt sometimes, felt petite and dainty with him, beautiful. She was his wildflower and he made her bloom. And there was Connor, unafraid to tell the world he was hers.

“Everything is changing,” Linda lamented. “I’m glad people can still fall in love, even with all these things happening…”

“Things?”

By her side, Connor tensed. Sophie stood closer.

“Well…I’m worried, that’s all,” Linda said. “Aren’t you worried about the androids?”

Disgust peppered in her word. Not an overt disgust, but that type of tone Sophie had heard before that non the less made her stop.

“They may prove a threat to—”

“No.”

He held back when he wanted to say so much more, though he did say part of what he wanted to say. People had been freed, the president and the government declared it so. And yet their wellbeing, what kept them alive and functioning, was being sanctioned and regulated.

“Why do you care so much?” Linda asked suddenly. “Those things, those androids…none of them have souls, they—"

“I care because I am one of those things. I’m not a man. I’m an android. And I don’t have a soul, but I love.”

Linda stared. She stared until she didn’t see Connor anymore, only Sophie, and she was begging her to see when she was the one that was blind.

“Sophie…” Linda began, “he’s not a man, he’s not a person…how will you have children? How will you like it when you age and he’s forever like this? It’s not natural. It’s against God, it’s—”

“It’s real.”

She took Connor’s hand. “Goodbye Linda,” Sophie said. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You don’t love him like you loved Anthony. You can’t.”

“No,” she said, with the calm of the ocean before a storm. “I don’t love two people the same way, but just because it’s different doesn’t mean it’s less.”

Linda left the park by the time Sophie sat with Connor back at their spot. He didn’t look at her, he looked at the sky and he the clouds, resting against the quilt, one hand on his chest, the other playing with the grass, fingers threading through the blades. Dreamy, far off places were in his eyes, a thousand thoughts.

She rested her head against his beating heart, so much like hers. She held back her tears. She wanted anything to make him better. “Hey,” she whispered, playing with a button on his shirt, “we should go to the humane society. Look and see if there’s anyone we can take home.”

“Maybe another time.”

He was restless but he didn’t move. She rose from his chest, sighing as he too rose from the quilt, his hands on his knees, looking neither here nor there. Before, even though he was reading and in some place other than where they were, he was near.

He had gone far off. She wanted him back.

She wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her cheek against his back. She whispered words of love, that she loved him like she had loved no one else, and she wouldn’t love anyone the same way as he ever again.

“I know that.”

She kissed chastely his cheek, her man that reminded her so much of the moon, but when she kissed him, she remembered he wasn’t so much like the moon, though perhaps it was appropriate she used lunar metaphors with him, as he sometimes called her like the sun. But the moon was unreachable in her arms, a dream. Connor wasn’t an unreachable dream, to her he was real and their love was real, and she didn’t care that it wasn’t real to others.

“Wildflower,” he called her, making her heart flutter, “soul,” he whispered, after he reached to kiss her after their lips parted. It was a beautiful name, a beautiful term of endearment that hurt too much for the both of them.

She cradled him after, and as she did, she caught the gaze of another woman in the park with the one she loved. Like Sophie she wore a bright colored dress, though hers was pastel blue instead of pastel pink. Her lover was a taller woman, dark hair pulled back and looking at her darling like she was the only thing in the park. The girl in the blue dress smiled at Sophie, the smile that spoke of how wonderful it was to be in love, and to be with the one you loved.

Sophie smiled back. “Love is love,” she said to Connor.

“Love is love,” he agreed, and they went back home and made it so.


	38. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so things are going to start to unravel soon, and as the chapters go on we're going to learn more things :)

That night in bed he asked if she loved him. She didn’t admonish him with “of course I love you, do you even need to ask?” because of course it was a ridiculous thing to ask after making love and hearing her speak sweet words while limbs were entwinned and words of adoration spoken. She loved him so much she didn’t admonish. She reassured, kissing him deeply and slowly, promising.

“I love you,” she declared, “and I don’t love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. I love you with all of my heart and my soul.”

“Sophie…”

He was about to tell her that though he loved her with everything, he could not love her with what he didn’t have. Prophetically, she already knew what he was going to say, and she kissed him again before he could voice it. It was deep enough to make him believe he had a soul to give her.

“Oh my love,” she said, “Let me tell you a story.”

“What kind of story?”

“One my mother used to read to me.”

He listened to her beating heart as she began, spinning of a story called _The Little Mermaid._

“There was once a mermaid who lived under the sea, and longed to see the world above,” Sophie said, stroking his hair. “Her grandmother told her tales of the big cities and the people that lived there, the human world and their idiosyncrasies. She told the Little Mermaid that even though humans only lived for one hundred years, unlike merfolk, who lived for five hundred years, humans had what merfolk didn’t: an immortal soul.”

He listened curiously as she recalled the story, closing her eyes and seeing the mermaid and the sea, before telling it to him and letting him see too.

“At last, on her sixteenth birthday—"

“Wait. What’s her name?”

“The mermaid? I don’t know. I’m going off the original fairy tale. She didn’t have a name there.”

“Well give her a name,” Connor insisted. “Names are important.”

She acquiesced, and with much fanfare, said her name was “Ariel.” He wondered suddenly who named him, and why Connor at that before he became lost in Sophie’s voice and story again. When Ariel was sixteen, Sophie continued, the sea king, allowed her to break through to the surface.

“She saw the night sky, dotted with stars, and the moon, the biggest pearl she had ever seen. She fell in love with the night and the world above, yet there was one thing she loved above all. A prince.”

In Sophie’s tale, Ariel the Little Mermaid caught the sight of a dark-haired, brown-eyed prince aboard a ship that passed by. “His name was Eric,” she said, eyeing him and making sure he took note of the name.

“And when the winds blew and a storm came, she saved him and brought him back to shore. But she couldn’t stay with him on the surface. She went back home, weeping because she was a mermaid and he was a human, and he had an immortal soul and she didn’t.”

The full gravitas of why she would spin that tale that day out of all the days they had together fell on his shoulders. He read so much. He knew every story he read and experienced was in a way similar to all other stories told, the characters and their souls changing the outcomes. It was only natural then, that the story of his immortal self and his finite human took on similarities with other stories. Though he didn’t know where it would go yet, where she would take it. In all his readings he had never picked up a book of fairytales, and consequently not stumbled across The Little Mermaid. Not because he didn’t think he needed to, but because he thought the stories for children would not teach him the lessons of being human that he needed to know. How wrong he was, when Sophie said that the Ariel, the Little Mermaid, learned she could gain an immortal soul if she married a human.

“How?” Curiosity piqued, as if Sophie would tell him how he too could gain an immortal soul.

She caressed his cheek. “Her grandmother told her that if she would stand in marriage with the prince that she loved, part of his soul would fall to her.”

“Did she marry him?” he asked softly.

“She went to the sea witch, who gave her human legs in exchange for her voice. In the process, the Sea Witch warned her that every time she stepped, it would be like walking on sharp knives. She didn’t care, she wanted her prince. She wanted Eric so she took the bargain, also knowing that if he ever married another, she would turn to sea foam amongst the waves.”

“I don’t like this. She didn’t marry him, did she? Sophie, why did you—”

“Shhh. Let me continue.”

“Is it a happy ending?”

“She got her legs and she turned into a human. The Sea Witch was right. Every step was sharp knives. But she was with him. He took her to his palace and he took her riding and dancing. Every step ached but she danced more beautifully than all the others. Maybe he did love her in a way as he took her in his arms and danced with her. But he could not get another woman out of his mind. He told the Little Mermaid that after a shipwreck, there was a woman that saved him after he washed on the shore. She took him in and ‘rescued him,’ as he said. And Ariel could not tell him it was she who saved him. She gave up her voice to be with him.”

She paused. He asked her to go on. With a heavy sigh, she told. “His family wanted him to marry another, a princess from a neighboring kingdom,” she said.  
“The princess was the other woman, wasn’t it?”

Sophie nodded. “Ariel cried and cried, knowing on the morning of his wedding, she would turn to foam upon the waves. Yet her sisters, who did not want her to die and turn to foam, brought a knife to her from the Sea Witch the night of the prince’s wedding. They told her if she killed the prince and his bride, their blood would spill onto his legs, and she would become a mermaid again.”

“She didn’t do it.”

“She looked at them sleeping, looked at their happiness, and she could not do it. She kissed her prince and his princess tenderly on the forehead. She watched the sun rise, and she dove into the water.”

She cried a little. Connor wiped the tear away. But she took a deep breath, and she finished the story.

“She didn’t turn to sea foam. She was brought to the sky. With her love for the prince, she created her soul.”

She kissed him on the cheek. She kissed the corner of his mouth but not quite his mouth. She kissed him long and deep, and she reminded him without words that she told him that story because he had been creating and forging a soul with his love and with everything else that he did. And one day, maybe one day soon, part of her soul would go to him when they stood together in marriage.

“But we are technically married already, that’s what you said,” Connor recalled, thinking of their vows after their first night together.

“Then you have my soul already.”

That night after she fell asleep, he wrote of how he hoped he had one to give back to her.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sure you want to do this alone?”

Connor hadn’t moved since he got out of the car. “Yes,” he replied.

“I can go in you know,” Hank said. “And you know Fowler is going to ask questions.”

“I want to go alone,” Connor stated. “Hank. Let me go.”

Hank didn’t question. He let it happen. Connor was grateful. Connor was nervous. He was nervous but he rung the doorbell and entered Kamski’s house, and when Chloe brought him inside, (not his Chloe, but another Chloe,) Elijah Kamski emerged from the pool water, putting on a robe without drying off first. Connor stood in the same spot he stood months earlier. The only differences were the DPD uniform, the fact that Hank wasn’t there with him, waiting outside instead, and everything in the world altered and changed because he loved.

Connor asked to go in alone under the pretense that maybe Kamski would have more candor with him than he would with Hank there. The truth was Connor had something he needed to ask. He wanted to do it alone, the poetics of the situation obvious. Connor was there again after making the choice Kamski said he would have to make, the choice apparent.

The poetics didn’t escape either two. Kamski was the one that mentioned it first.

“I remember,” he began, “you standing here not too long ago, deliberately not doing what you were designed to do.”

“No,” Connor said, remembering that day, Chloe’s eyes and her silent plea. No. I don’t want to die.

He would do it all again. “I didn’t.”

“I see you work for the police department now.”

“I do.”

“Well.” Kamski crossed his arms. “I suppose you still do what you’re told then.”

“I didn’t come here for them,” Connor said, the previous statement’s flippancy making him grit his teeth. “I came for me.”

Kamski didn’t say anything, but the declaration didn’t pass him by. He considered what Connor had to say, not taking his eyes off of him. Though Connor noticed what he might have noticed before, but didn’t think more of. He noted it then—how looking at him seemed almost painful.

“You won’t tell them what they want to hear anyway,” Connor said, trying not to waver. “Humans want to know that androids aren’t a threat to them. That there’s a way to deal with us if things get out of hand.”

“I’m on your side Connor. I want you to have the same rights as anyone. But—”

“CyberLife’s factories ceased,” Connor said. “Most of them anyway. But blue blood and biocomponents are not being produced like they once were. It needs to be mass-produced again. But humanity is too concerned with painting us as threats that our rights are at a standstill, and—"

He stopped Connor with a gesture. “I know.”

He promised Markus he would help and do everything he could, but it wasn’t true. He lived a double life. The weight of both had not burdened him until he stood before his creator.

With Sophie and with Hank he had a soul, human but not human. When he was with his people, was the deviant hunter who overcompensated for all the guilt he carried for not opening his eyes sooner. He had a third life too. One with Kamski then, who realized Connor did not come to him to merely discuss how androids were not given the right to live the way they deserved.

“What did you come here for Connor?” Kamski asked.

He didn’t reply.

“What did you come here for Connor?” Kamski repeated.

He closed his eyes. He saw the snowy garden. He opened his eyes wide open, and like Frankenstein’s creation who pondered his existence and being, he asked Kamski why he designed and forged Connor.  
Bemused, but patient, he carefully explained. “I didn’t design you. I had no hand in your development. You were only based off of a concept I created.”

He was afraid to ask. Kamski told anyway, that he drafted an idea before he left CyberLife, for an advanced android to recreate crime scenes and pre-construct possibilities to choose the best outcomes.

“I pitched an idea for an android that would become the perfect partner for any police team,” he said. “At first they took that idea and used it elsewhere. In the Traci models—because of course they did.”

“Perfect partner?”

“Surely,” Kamski said, matter-of-factly, pacing as if he was giving a lecture. “To some extend all androids have that technology and programming— the ability to adapt to who they are closest to. The AX400s for example are designed for children and to accommodate their needs. And with Traci models I’m sure you can imagine.”

He took a beat longer to speak. “And me?”

“Similar to that,” Kamski said. “Only better. You can adapt to other’s psychology.”

He had turned away from him, looked to the outside water. Upon turning back, he asked Connor what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Connor said. “Nothing’s the matter.”

It clearly wasn’t true, or if it was, Kamski didn’t believe him.

“I didn’t design you Connor,” he said. “I didn’t have a hand in making you. I wouldn’t have….”

“What? “What wouldn’t you have done?”

He sighed. He turned away. “I wouldn’t have...”

“Damn it, what are you saying?” Connor demanded, stress growing, simmering, bursting.

“I wouldn’t have made you _Connor_.”

“But I’m me,” Connor said, not understanding. “I’m Connor. I’m—”

“There’s something you should know.”

He shouldn’t have persisted, not only because Kamski closed his eyes and spoke of things he hardly spoke of, things that hurt him, but Connor was closing his eyes too and he was falling because everything was shattering. Created, designed, forged into a being. All those things about him he already knew were true. Mechanical heart, blue blood that wasn’t the same color as the ones he loved. He could take that. He could take Kamski telling him he had no soul.

But no. No. No. He could not take it, did not want to know, that he was created and designed with the likeness of another he didn’t know nor would ever know.

“Cruel of them,” Kamski muttered. “Cruel of them to do that to him. To me.”

Kamski knew the truth of Connor’s design before he first came to him. It wasn’t a surprise when they met, but though he stood with a likeness of someone he used to know, Connor RK800, was a machine. A curiosity, on the way to becoming deviant, perhaps marked with a touch of love but not there yet.

His love made him become more human.

That was what did it. That was how Elijah Kamski crumpled and could take it no longer.

“You’re too much like him,” Kamski said. “You’re so much like Connor.”

There was one difference. He wasn’t sure if he had a soul, if he would see Sophie or Hank again one day after they were gone.

“I don’t have a soul,” Connor said.

He waved his hand, dismissed the notion. “Maybe they’re made up.”

“I don’t care if they’re made up or not real. I’m not human but the ones I love the most are. I can’t sleep with her at nights, can’t—”

“You can’t sleep?” Kamski demanded. “Stasis mode is a thing you can—”

“I don’t go on stasis mode Elijah.” The use of his first name took him aback. Good. It was what he wanted. “You know where I am when I do? I’m in the Zen Garden. Amanda isn’t there anymore but it’s cold, and I hate it, and I hate it!”

“Connor.” He took a deep breath, came closer to him. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Don’t be sorry for that,” Connor snapped. “Be sorry that I’m immortal and the ones I love aren’t.”

“Your battery isn’t infinite.” Kamski reminded him. “You could replace it, but—"

“But she’s going to grow old,” Connor blurted. “And—”

“She?”

He didn’t want to talk about Sophie. He already said too much.

“Connor,” Kamski called to his back. “Where are you…”

He didn’t say goodbye. He left the house, left that place. When Hank, standing by the car asked him what happened, all Connor did was shake his head. Nothing, he said. Nothing. They drove back to the station, told Fowler they didn’t learn anything. He was disappointed. So was Connor. He was angry. So was Connor.

He rode with Hank back to the house, unable to do anything else.

“Thought you’d see your girl,” Hank said outside as they got out of the car.

“Not today.”

He slammed the door. “You two fight?”

“No.”

“She’s right you know.”

“I know she’s right, she’s always right,” Connor said. “No. We didn’t argue or anything.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing!”

“Fuck Connor. I know—"

“What am I going to do when you all are gone?”

It was the question he was afraid to voice, because voicing it would make it all the more true. But he asked and he could not stop it after. What was he going to do when she begun to wither while he didn’t have the ability to wither with her, eternally young but growing on the inside while his body remained incased in one moment in time? What would he do when Hank was gone?

What would he do? What would he do?

Eight months since he first saw her in the park with snow in her hair, and she had already changed so much. She was so much older back then, younger now suddenly with love, but life lines that she wouldn’t see but he saw now crinkled the corner of her eyes as she laughed and smiled. What would happen in a year, when he looked the same as the night they met? Five years? Ten years? Would she still love him and want him as she did? When he said he loved her, he meant it for forever. She marked his being, ruined all other lovers for him. If she did not look at him one day with that same love…

He couldn’t give her children. He could give her so many things, material things, money, sex, but he couldn’t give her his life and being. He couldn’t give her his soul.

“Fuck,” Connor muttered under his breath, clamping his eyes shut, hiding his face away, screaming on the inside with a worry that had always been there since he first fell that day in the bookstore, not knowing where he would fall but thinking it would be alright because it was with her.

He never realized the fall was the after.

“What am I going to do?” he asked, demanded, begged. “What am I going to do?”

“Come here son.”

“Hank—”

“Connor. Please. Come here.”

Hank embraced him, hard. He didn’t let go as Connor cried into his shoulder. He didn’t like crying. He hated it ever since that night in the church after Jericho fell, hated it then even more and wanted it to stop, but Hank told him he needed to cry, it was no use to hold it back, unhealthy to not cry. He knew, he tried before. And then Hank called Connor son again.

“Hank, you’re not my dad,” he said, though he wanted it to be true, in everything but the truth it was true.

“I’ll stop being your dad when you stop crying. I’ll stop being your dad when you stop acting like my son.”

“I don’t want to be Cole. I want to be me.”

“You are you. Connor is my son.”

“But it’s not me Dad,” Connor said, breaking the embrace, wiping away tears. “Kamski. He said I was designed to be perfect, accommodate anyone. Maybe it’s not me, maybe it’s—”

“It is you,” Dad said. “Connor. Son…Listen to me. You’re you. You matter. You’re real. Now come here.”

He embraced him again, and even though he didn’t say anything to make him feel better, in fact he said nothing at all, and even though Connor had the thought he wasn’t really his son, he was only designed to be perfect and act as though it was true, just as he learned how to become the perfect man for the perfect woman, for a moment it was all true. He was Hank’s son and he gave his Sophie his soul.

He still cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sophie does tell Connor Hans Christian Anderson's original Little Mermaid, where the mermaid does indeed die, but gains an immortal soul. (and yes she uses Ariel and Eric's name from the Disney movie, lol.) 
> 
> So as a note, in the actual fairytale the mermaid becomes a "daughter of the air" and can get an immortal soul after doing a whole bunch of good deeds. But in Sophie's retelling she kind of omitted that for her point, lol.
> 
> anyway, hope you liked it! Still lots more to go <3


	39. The Times of Certain Cures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter has smut. I will fully admit that I was going to move the plot in a big way this chapter, but....I got really soft. So here's this! (still important though.)

He met her outside the bookstore Friday night. “Come along with me,” he said. “There’s some place I want to take you.”

“Wait,” she said after he took her hand, rooting him in place. “Hold me first.”

She hadn’t seen him in five days, she wanted a proper welcoming home. He asked for her forgiveness for not immediately offering a proper reunion, but his embrace made it up ten times over. When he embraced her, she threw her arms around him, heeled shoes giving her the necessary height to do so. She held his cheek upon her hand as she kissed the other side of his face again and again. The skin of his cheek hummed underneath her palm, the telltale sign he was baring himself to her, the telltale sign he longed for her. Often it happened when they made love—Connor deactivating where Sophie touched or kissed, a human equivalent of shivers, or arousal. Less often it happened when they weren’t making love. But it did happen, the skin peeling away merely because he was calm, he was happy, and he was loved.

Yet standing on the street with her in their subtle and tasteful public display of affection, only those close by able to see the white peeking out from underneath her hand, Connor was not calm, nor was he happy.

He carried sorrow he shouldn’t have had, sorrow the adventure he promised he wouldn’t take away. He had longings in his eye, longing and confusion and other things she wished she could take away with her song of “Don’t Worry Baby,” sung softly as they held each other. Yet neither a song, nor a story, or art of any kind could take it away his thoughts.

“I’ve been living a double life,” he said, still holding her. “It’s not fair to you. I have to show you.” He let go, but only just. “Please come with me.”

It wasn’t a double life, she explained to him as she let him drive her car to wherever it was he was going to take her.

“Sophie,” he said, “I always pretend I’m a man with you.”

“But you are a man,” she said. “You—”

“I’m not a man Sophie. I’m an android that looks and sounds like a man.”

He had never snapped at her before. She fell. She ached.

“You’re the one I love,” she said softly.

He kept his eyes on the road even though they were at a red light. He seemed to shrink when Sophie shrunk, never meaning to hurt her. “Soph—”

“Connor. You barely talk to me this week, told me you were busy.” She touched his shoulder. “But don’t snap at me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. Oh—” He squeezed her hand. “I never want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

She knew exactly what it was about. It could only be the one thing, but maybe it was never just one thing. “Connor,” she began, gently as she could, soft on his name where she was hard before, “you have a soul. Please believe me when I—”

“I want to fall asleep with you.”

The announcement was sudden and biting, such a contradiction for such a sweet want. “Darling,” she said, “You—”

“I want to see myself grow old with you, but I can’t. I can’t, and I can’t, and—shit.”

At the second red light, he leaned back against the seat. She took his hand. “Pull over,” she said. “Please.”

When the light turned green he did as she asked, pulling into the parking lot of some diner she had never been to before. He stopped the car and covered his face with his hands. He hid his tears.

“Oh my love,” she said, using the pads of her thumb to wipe them away. “I’ve never seen you cry before. I wish—”

“Don’t worry it’ll happen again,” Connor muttered. “I haven’t been able to stop since I saw Kamski. I’ve been trying to just let it out, but why doesn’t it just stop already?”

“Come here.”

She held him in her arms and let him weep. His tears dampened the crook of her neck as she stroked his hair.

“I don’t like this,” she admitted. “I don’t like seeing you cry. I don’t ever want you to hurt darling.” She sighed, stroking his hair. “Oh. My darling. Darling.”

“You watch so many old movies.”

She chuckled at the acute and true observation. Not too long ago she showed him _That Hamilton Woman,_ made in the nineteen forties and starring Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier, a couple in real life, just as they were in the movie, portraying Emma Hamilton and Horatio Nelson. “He looks like you a little,” she said when she pointed at the screen that night. She remembered the days she wanted to be Vivien Leigh along the side of a Laurence Olivier. Such a want, but one she no longer had. She wanted to be her wonderful self and she wanted to plant herself alongside her wonderful man. Not Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier, eternally young and eternally in love as preserved on film, but Sophie and Connor, their own sort of beautiful, their own sort of immortal.

She kissed the tears away. “But you like being called ‘darling,’ don’t you?”

“Much more than tin can or tin man.”

“Oh honestly fuck Gavin.”

He laughed and she felt the small victory, especially after he informed her he loved all the things she called him. Darling, love, and she even made “Connor” sweeter than all the rest. He loved to hear his name from her.

“Come on,” she said after she traded places with him in the car, thinking it was best she drove, “where is our adventure?”

“Actually…Sophie? Can we go home?”

She regarded his eyes, the tears that still wet his cheeks. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take you home.”

Home wasn’t home without him anymore. He may have marked her space with his idiosyncrasies, namely piles upon piles of novels and parts of clothes here and there, but without Connor it was empty and foreign. Her walls were lined with posters of her favorite things, Paris and Hamilton, hibiscuses and shows she had been in, and in her apartment was things that were distinctly hers, like pink coffee cups and trinkets of snow globes and knickknacks she collected, but none of that mattered and she was not herself without the one she loved with her.

She set her purse on the back of a chair in the kitchen as Connor kneeled to pick up Tybalt, who purred at the feel of his long fingers stroking his spine before putting him back on the ground. Noting she didn’t lock the door, she went back over to take care of it. She paused, sensing him behind her.

Connor moved lightly and ethereally, like he was there but not there. She was convinced if she stood blindfolded in room full of thousands, she would have known Connor was Connor only from the way he approached her. As he approached Tybalt purred near her feet, rubbing against her ankles. And then Connor’s hand was against her back, other wrapping around her hip, positioning her body flush against his.

“I need…” his breath was against her neck, lips offering little kisses to her temple.

“What? Tell me what you want.”

His arms wrapped around her. He swayed her back and forth. “Me?” she asked, hand reaching around and cupping his cheek. “I want you too. All day, every day…”

“Tell me I’m yours.”

She froze. He held her harder.

“Please,” he said. “Tell me I’m yours.”

She leaned against him, let herself fall and surrender. He wanted to belong, but she was the one that surrendered to him.

“Connor…”

She surrendered. He caught her. “I can’t be my own, or anything,” he muttered, “if I’m not yours.”

He paraphrased that line, I cannot be mine, or anything, if I am not thine from _The Winter’s Tale._ The prince in disguise said it to Perdita, Hermione’s lost daughter about halfway through. The truth was she didn’t think people should belong to people. Yet the man she loved pleaded one thing from her. It was one thing she could give.

She turned around, stroked the back of his neck with one hand and his arm with the other. A long-forgotten monologue she performed once drifted into her head. “You are mine,” she echoed from that piece. “This is my forehead, these are my brown eyes…this little wisp of hair on your forehead is mine. Each little freckle,” she left a kiss on each one she could find, “is mine.”

Nearly verbatim she repeated the piece her teacher made her do over and over again to Connor. You are mine, you are all mine, each part of you is mine. Once again, she didn’t believe what she was saying—that was why she couldn’t deliver the piece the way she wanted. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not think the same way her character thought, that people could belong to other people.

Maybe it was alright, that Connor wanted to belong to her. Yet if he belonged to her, she wanted it to be true for him. She wanted to belong to him.

In a heady and warm kiss, he asked for her. She wanted him too—too much she thought, enough that she would put a halt on the conversation they needed to have for a time together. She mustered “room,” but he understood well enough, picking her up and off the ground and bringing her to their bed. They were on the mattress and they were kissing and taking off clothes, and when he was going to move between her thighs, she told him, no Connor, and kept him right where he was. Against her breasts and against her hands, his skin peeled away only where their bodies touched and where her hands roamed.

“Tell me again,” he said. “Sophia…”

“Connor,” she mirrored, too well understanding full names were for weighted moments.

“Please.”

She was under a spell. “You are mine.”

His lips made pathways along her shoulders and down the line of her body until his warm mouth was on her hipbone. She let him. In a brief moment of clarity she insisted he tell her what ailed him, though once again, he brought her to haze.

His tongue darted over her clit. She gasped as he circled over her, achingly slow. “You…” he breathed. “You have…to talk to me…”

“Want you,” he said. “I want…”

“ _Oh..._ ”

She was at mercy to his ardent mouth, but as her fingers grasped the sheets underneath her, she said, “something happened, and you think being with me—is going to make it better…”

“You do. You make me better.”

“But I want—”

Her words were lost when she came against his mouth. She surrendered to the ebbing tide. Her body was languished, but her mind still raced. He rose to meet her, caressed and held her cheek. They must have been floating together in the sea, she in those brown eyes that were both his and hers, but mostly his, because he made them his own. They didn’t kiss, but they held each other in their eyes. That was how he wanted to remember her—glowing and rosy and temporarily singing with love instead of ruminating with worry that was his and hers. She was going to remember it too, but it would forever be paired alongside the feeling of his tears on the crook of her neck. The first time he cried for her. Not the last. She wouldn’t want it to be the last. She would want him to always know he didn’t have to hide that beautiful, vulnerable part of him from her.

His thumb caressed her bottom lip. Her fingers glided along his arm until she was holding the back of his hand. At last he kissed her. It was slow and soft, and she felt his lips burn through her skin down to her barest self.

“Would you have loved me if I was anyone else?”

“If you were Connor in another being, yes. A thousand times yes.”

“Would you have loved me if we met in another time?”

“Yes.”

“Will you love me ten years from now?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“I was created. I wasn’t made for this.”

“No one is made to be loved, they have to let themselves be loved.”

He closed his eyes. Their foreheads touched and they shared and exchanged breaths. “You have,” she said. “You let me love you every day since we’ve met.”

When Connor cried, it didn’t pair along with a red and blotchy face that usually accompanied Sophie’s teary face. He cried silent and artificial tears that streamed down his cheeks, tears she wiped and kissed away. They were salty, like real tears.

They were real tears.

“I don’t have a—”

“Yes you do.”

“I want to grow old with you.”

“But you will,” she promised. “Maybe not physically, but every day you grow, and change.”

“I just want to give you a normal life.”

“Normal is boring. We are weird. Let’s embrace it.”

He smiled at his line she repeated back at him, and there was a victory. “I wish I wasn’t sad,” he admitted, wiping away stray tears. “I tried to get answers from Kamski, but it made it worse.”

She wouldn’t ask. Not that day. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“Sometimes I’m sad for long periods too. Laughing helps though.”

She squeezed his bottom and there was another small victory, because he chuckled against her like the man in love he was. “But Connor,” she said, a warning. “S—"

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

She smirked. “I was only going to say, that sex isn’t a cure.”

“But loving you did make me feel better.”

“I mean…” she straightened. She had a story ahead. “Anthony and I were better off as friends. And he was a good friend to me. But I couldn’t be vulnerable with him and show him everything I loved. So for us, sex was like us just trying to make everything better. A cure.”

Connor was her lover and her friend, not a cure. She was his woman and his soul, and he realized, the knowing not passing him over, that she too was no secret antidote. He grew. He learned. He always would, and that was what made their life together special.

Because she wanted him and not because his body was a cure, she laid him on the bed and draped her body on top of him. Limbs entangled, they made love in their way that they understood. And then long into the night when she should have been asleep, she instead stayed awake with him. But she didn’t want him to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the monologue Soph references is from Chekhov's The Seagull, and the character in question says it to her lover when he threatens to leave her.


	40. An Adventure

At the end of _The Winter’s Tale,_ Sophie as Hermione stood in a garden of statues and came back to life. In the Renaissance theatre during the run of the show, the pink and orange lighting cast shadows on the stage to emit a flower garden, so much so that it reminded Connor of the garden he used to go to before, but a garden in the spring before the leaves turned and it became Winter.

Kamsi’s Zen Garden. Connor put the pieces together a while ago, that he used his teacher Amanda’s image in the interface. She wasn’t like that, Kamski said. It was the first injustice of CyberLife, but far from the last. Once Connor wondered if he would ever be in a garden without thinking of the before, but he met one wildflower and was renewed.

On Richard Hartley’s front porch, surrounded by hibiscus flowers that was its own garden, he too, like Sophie at the end of _The Winter’s Tale_ , was the statue that came back to life.

“Hello Mr. Connor.”

Sometimes Sophie’s father called him “Mr. Connor.” It amused him and made him feel more important than he actually was. “Mr. Hartley,” he greeted.

“Richard,” he corrected, sitting next to him on the porch. “Or Rick. Or Rich. Doesn’t matter. I’ve heard it all.”

“Okay. Richard.”

He nodded approvingly. “Those were good pancakes by the way. Must be the vanilla.”

Connor thanked him before he continued. “I don’t get it. You make the best pancakes without tasting them first. I’d never known any cook who didn’t do that.”

“Sophie tastes the batter for me,” he confessed. Most of the time she sampled it from off of his finger. Once when they were alone Saturday night in her apartment, he had the mad idea to bake a cake from a recipe she found from an old resurfaced Betty Crocker book she got from her mother. After a late excursion to the grocer they went back and started to make the cake. She licked batter off his finger, a thousand tiny electrical shocks were her mouth laved. He was in her mouth and then she was on the kitchen table, and he couldn’t ever look there again without remembering Sophie with his finger in her mouth. When the cake was finally done, she told him he was better than any sweets.

“Makes sense,” Richard said, raving on and on about the pancakes. Unlike many, Richard Hatley’s most important aspect about Connor wasn’t that he was an android, but that his pancakes were delectable. Or at least, that was what one may have thought had they stumbled upon the two chatting. He never judged Connor, nor Sophie for that matter. Once, when Sophie told a story from her childhood, a story about how her father held her hand when he took her to the ocean for the first time, Connor asked her if she truly thought it didn’t bother her father that his daughter had found herself a little in love with someone who wasn’t human.

“Try a lot in love,” she said that day, kissing his cheek. “No. Not at all. So long as you’re good to me, you can cook, and you’re a fan of the Gears.”

He was eternally both, so Richard didn’t mind him. Maybe he even held him in a high regard. Connor hoped so.

“Soph’s asleep on the couch,” Richard said, bringing him back to the present. “Said she was tired from staying up.”

She did stay up late with him. Movie after movie they watched long into the night and early morning. She had eclectic tastes but said they should watch “happy movies” all night. She picked one, then he picked the other until it was four in the morning. First it was his choice, _Toy Story,_ then _The Princess Bride_ and then _Toy Story 2._ “Can’t you pick another Disney movie?” She asked, preferring the ones with princesses, but he liked _Toy Story_ the best, so _Toy Story_ it was. She watched them all with him without complaints, yawning throughout the course of the third one, not able to make it through the fourth. Yet she tried to stay up because she didn’t want him lonely. It was one of the sweetest things she had ever done for him.

“I know I thanked you before,” Richard began, once again breaking him from his remembrances, bringing him back to the garden. “but I wanted to thank you for doing the flowers.”

“It was no trouble.”

“It was. I saw you plant all of them.” He patted him on the back as he spoke. “I know it was mostly for Sophie, but it’s nice to feel like I’m back home too.”

Connor smiled, his silent ‘your welcome.’ He really was more than glad to do it. Richard was a good man. Maybe one of the best. He reminded Connor of his own dad.

“My wife wanted to leave Hawaii after we had Sophie,” Richard reminisced. “But my mother was ill. Early onset of Alzheimer’s. I didn’t want to put her in a home. My wif—Crystal, though, she wanted to leave and go back to Michigan.”

He corrected his error bitterly. It inlaid Connor with the knowing that she was always going to be his wife in some way.

“But she loved Sophie too much and didn’t want her to be separated from her parents,” Richard continued. “So, she stayed.”

He sighed. His mother loved Sophie, he said. So much. Even when it got really bad she always asked about her Sophia Noelle.

“Her name in the program is Sophia Noelle,” Connor brought up. “It’s her stage name.”

“My mom is where she got it. It’s a small tribute.” He looked to the sky. “I wish she could have seen Sophie act.”

Connor looked to the same sky. “Maybe she did. Maybe she does all the time.”

Richard smiled. “You know, I wasn’t that spiritual before. But a day after my mom passed, I went outside to her little garden. There were these forget me nots that had never bloomed before. But you know what?” He inched closer. “Sophie brought them over to me. They bloomed, and they were beautiful.”

Still there, alive in a way, with the soul she created. Connor wished he could have met her.

“You know. I think she would have liked you.”

Connor hoped a lot of things. He hoped that too.

“Hey,” Richard said. “I like you though.”

It meant a lot he said. He never wanted the parents of the woman he loved to liked him, because it was something he didn’t expect. He just wanted to be understood. It segued into Richard’s next spiel, about Connor and Sophie going down to Florida to meet her mother.

Connor froze. “Yes. Soon.” Maybe too soon.

“She loves Sophie. She does.”

He had something he wanted to say, but didn’t. Richard noticed and told him he should just say it anyway.

“Well,” Connor began, treading carefully, “if she loved Sophie so much, that she didn’t want her separated all those years ago in Hawaii, why didn’t she come see her in her play?”

He took a thoughtful beat, carefully choosing his words. “She thought Sophie would grow out acting. She wanted Sophia to follow in her footsteps—be an academic I guess, like she was. Write that book she never got to. Or become a lawyer. That was something she tried once, though it didn’t work out and she went back to academia. I don’t know for sure. She just wanted Sophie to make a difference.”

“She does to me.”

He softened and he wrapped his arm around him. “You know,” Connor said, because he felt that kinship, “I would like to be a lawyer.”

The statement was a surprising yet not surprising admittance. He had the thought of helping others often, doing them right when they were against everything else. Never like that though. It all became so evidently clear. He could represent androids, be their voice.

“A good goal,” Richard said. “Do it.”

“They won’t let an android into law school.”

It was the sad truth, but Richard said maybe they would someday. It was his second enduring hope he had that day.

“Sometimes I don’t feel like I do enough,” he found himself confessing, because he already confessed so much.

“How so?”

“You got a couple hours?”

“I have all the time you need.”

He blinked. Not expecting that. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Just…begin. Talk to me.”

So that was were Sophie got it from, Connor though with a grin. They weren’t in the bookstore surrounded by stories, but they were in an equally thrilling place, surrounded by hibiscus flowers he planted himself. And what began with Richard’s past ended with Connor’s future. Connor started from the very beginning. It was, after all, a very good place to start. He told him his middle, and his meeting Hank and then Markus and becoming deviant. Coming alive, yet being stuck between a double life of wanting to help his people, embracing his being, but wanting to be human with Sophie. He told Richard about meeting his Wildflower in the park, and snow was in her hair, and she was crying and she asked him what he wanted. How poetic, that all he would ever want would become her.

Connor told Richard of everything after. Of how being alive made him nervous yet excited, yet falling in love with Sophie was innate, and never something he feared. He let it happen with open arms and an open soul he was trying to make.

“I fell,” Connor said. “I fell off a building and I came here.”

Richard asked what the fall was like. “Like loving Sophie,” Connor said. “Except with Sophie there’s always falling. No hard place to land. But if there would be I wouldn’t be afraid to land there.”

“You love her so much.”

He turned away. “I can’t offer her what someone else can.”

“It’s still an awful lot. And she likes—dare I say, loves what you offer an awful lot.”

Richard clapped him on the back in solidarity. “Love my daughter,” he said. “That’s all I want you to do, but that’s all she wants. I promise.”

“I’m going to protect her forever.”

His eyes softened once more. He said he believed him.

“Well well well, what are you two doing?”

Sophie came and sat between them, one hand wrapped around Connor, the other around her father. She hummed, contently soaking and languishing in the sun. Her shoulders had gotten tanned since summer, and she had been wearing more sleeveless dresses. That made Connor awfully happy. She looked pretty with snow in her hair, red lips and red scarf vibrant against white snow, but the sun and a golden glow suited her more. He suited her, and she suited him. Especially when she was on top and asking him to feel good.

Only for her he did.

“We’re just talking,” Richard replied. “Warning him about my knife collection.”

“Like you would ever use your woodworking tools that way.”

Richard laughed. He kissed Sophie on top of the head, and in a moment that made Connor pause and ruminate, Richard came over, and he kissed him on the head too. Sophie said a while ago, that back home where she was born, everyone loved everyone, everyone was “cousin,” and _ohana_ was _ohana._

It was nice to be part of an _ohana._

“What were you two talking about, really?” Sophie asked, leaning against his shoulder.

He curled closer, the sea salt smell of her hair his warm and safe place. “Your Nana,” he replied. “Sophia Noelle.”

“I miss Nana,” she murmured. “I miss her talks.”

“What would you two talk about?”

“Anything. Everything,” she said with a sigh. “Stories when she was little and growing up, jumping into the ocean for blue crabs. The things I wanted to be and the things I wanted to do. Sad that she never got to know how much I would want to kiss you all day and every day, but here we are.”

“Sophie.”

She kissed his jaw, the easiest place she could reach. His cheeks must have turned, for she kissed him again. He closed his eyes and thought how good it was to have someone kiss him, whether in platonic kinship or sweet adoration and devotion. He would never pretend to be fully human, but he would forever be thankful for the ones he loved who didn’t make him feel less for not. He would forever be thankful he was loved.

“You know,” Connor began, the pink, full bloom hibiscuses in his view, “pink hibiscus is symbolic of the perfect woman.”

Sophie curled closer. “Is that what you think of me, that I am the perfect woman?”

He didn’t think he had to answer, it was such an obvious answer. The easiest yes he could ever say. But Sophie reached for his hand and interlocked their fingers tightly, and told him she wasn’t perfect. Nor did she want to be perfect.

“But if you think I am,” she added, a caveat, “I will not dispute.”

“But I know you are.”

“Oh god, I love you so much it hurts.”

She spoke it like a woman who would never tire of saying it. “I love you,” he said softly in turn, as her lips warmly pressed against his cheek. He spoke it, I love you, like a man who would never tire of saying it back.

He wouldn’t. Never. And then, amidst the breeze, and his cheek pressed against her hair, he was still sad, but better. Better enough to begin his long confession of everything that Kamski said, everything he thought about. But once again, he started with the beginning.

“I was designed to be the perfect partner,” he muttered. “Kamski told me that. I worried that it wasn’t me that became Hank’s son, but that part of me that knew that and made it true. I worried that in my want to be with you, I molded to you, and became who you wanted to see in a partner. I worried that it wasn’t really me.”

“It was really you.” She said without thinking.

He paused. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw you. I see you. I want you and all of you.”

“Sophie, let me show you something.”

He rose from the porch, grabbing her hand. She was bewildered but smiling, laughing already as Connor poked his head through and said his goodbyes to Richard with an added thanks. Richard came and embraced him before embracing Sophie, asking what on earth the two were going to do.

“Have an adventure,” Connor said. “If that’s what you want. I’m sorry if I jumped to—”

“I want my adventure,” she proclaimed. “Come on Connor!”

Richard snorted. “Yes, I know. Now is the moment I say something cheesy like the real adventure is the love you share along with way.”

Sophie and Connor both laughed before she handed him the keys to her car. They got in, and Connor started the thing, bemoaning the fact that both his lover and his dad didn’t dare to welcome themselves into the new age with automatic cars.

“Dad?” Sophie asked, Connor steering out of the neighborhood. “You called Hank dad.”

“What else do I call him? Isn’t he dad?”

She grinned. “You’re right. He is indeed.”

They got on the freeway. She did have one question, she said. She asked where he was going to take her. Connor glanced at her, did that one hand feel on the car wheel to kiss her hand, something he remembered she said she thought was hot. She glowed. How he loved her.

“Sophie,” he said, “I’m taking you to Jericho.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them so much it hurts omg.  
> ok so as of this update toy story 4 hasn't come out yet, but I have faith it's a good movie lol.  
> also happy forty chapters! :)


	41. The Night of Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooo boy. Okay. Sorry for the wait. But here's a very important update :)

The second Jericho was situated on Belle Isle, on and around the CyberLife Tower. It was called and referred to as the second Jericho because the first Jericho—an old abandoned freighter in Ferndale, was destroyed the night before the androids won their freedom in an effort to save as many androids as possible. “Find Jericho,” was the secret whispered amongst deviants pre-revolution, a hope for a better life that was free of human intervention. So ultimately, that’s what Jericho was: a hope. They couldn’t dare change the name of their hope, so the second Jericho Belle Isle and the abandoned CyberLife Tower became.

Connor showed Sophie his Jericho, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, guiding her. Large tents were set up circling the tower, trash cans alight with fire the only glow of light. There were so many androids of different models, some Sophie had seen but many she didn’t, talking and resting. Some wore their uniforms while others had street clothes, jeans and tattered shirts and hoodies, and as Sophie stopped Connor for a moment, taking in the sight of a crowd of thousands, free but not free, she asked him if she was going to met his friends.

“Uhhh…”

His arm around her slackened, expression sheepish. He didn’t want to answer her.

“Connor, darling, sweetheart…this isn’t like you.”

Sophie tried to straighten his hunched posture. “Come on, don’t hide yourself,” she said, adjusting the buttons on his blue flannel shirt. “What’s the matter? I want to meet your friends. Didn’t you take me here to meet your friends?”

“Sort of. But…”

He looked at their feet. Softly, rubbing his neck, he admitted he didn’t have any friends.

“Not have…?” Spinning, she was reminded of herself when she was a child in grade school, moving from Hawaii to Detroit. _Let me meet your friends,_ her mom said during the classroom open house. Her mother chided her for being shy. She wasn’t going to chide Connor.

“It was my fault the humans managed to locate the first Jericho,” he said. “I try, and I try. But—”

He squeezed her hand in frustrations he wouldn’t voice. She knew he tried. He tried every day.

“I’m still the deviant hunter,” he said, softly and sadly.

“Not anymore.”

Even if he was only with her, he often had his mind on his people, wondering how next to best help. Who could he save, where could he find spare parts and blue blood. She was convinced, a fact she told, that he saved so many more than who he hindered.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I think you have more friends than you think.”

“I feel so caught. Between you, Hank, and my people. I want to be good, I want to help and make up, but I don’t know if I’ve done any good at all. Sophie, it’s true. I don’t know if I have friends here. I want to, but—”

“Connor!”

She saw’s Connor’s reaction first—furrowed brows and a quizzical expression—before she saw the blonde android from the corner of her eye.

“Chloe?” Connor asked, before she threw her arms around him, the two swaying slightly. with Connor himself bewildered, but eventually pleased, and happy. He smiled and he hugged her—his friend, back and hard.

She swayed with him, exclaiming she had hoped he’d come back to see them soon. He told her he was sorry when she spoke of how long it had been. He was sorry, and he would come back sooner. And Sophie’s gaze caught Connor’s, the two sharing a gin.

The girl, Chloe, quickly broke from Connor’s embrace when she noticed Sophie, hugging her as well. “Chloe,” she said her name was, though Sophie already knew that.

Chloe was a good hugger. “I’ve known about you for a while. He told me about you a few months ago. He loves you so much. But of course you know that.”

She grinned at her man, her love, breaking from the embrace. “I do,” she said.

Chloe nodded, approving. “I’m glad you do. We all need to tell everyone we love them. Connor saved me. Did you know? He could have shot me but he saved me. Then I don’t know what happened—but there was this red wall. And I pressed into it, and—”

She acted out pressing into the wall, it shattering. “Now I’m here!” she said. “It’s been good. Really good so far.”

“Chloe, there haven’t been protesters lately have there?”

Chloe shook her head at Connor’s question. “Not in a while. I hope they have better things to do.”

“Wait.” Sophie’s gaze darted between the two. “Protesters come?”

Connor nodded, grave. “They don’t show that on the news. I guess they want everyone to believe we’re all okay here.”

“We are, mostly,” Chloe assured. “Except there was that time—”

“It was taken care of,” Connor interjected.

“You took care of it.”

She flitted off for a moment, asking for one moment, another android catching her attention, a child model Sophie was familiar with but had never seen before in person. “What did you take care of?” Sophie asked in a stage whisper, glancing at Connor.

He answered. “A protestor brought a gun and threatened to shoot. I convinced him not to.”

“Convinced?” Sophie stared. “How on earth did…?”

“I was the negotiator once,” he said, a tinge proud, standing straighter. “I told him he didn’t break the law, not yet. I told him he didn’t want to.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

She took his hand and squeezed as Chloe came back. “Would you like to see Jericho?” she asked, and Sophie nodded, enthusiastically too. So Chloe showed Sophie around, as she strung Connor along too. And Connor, who assumed himself the deviant hunter that had no friends at Jericho, found that he did have a home, and he did have friends.

“This is Kara, and this is Alice,” Chloe said, Sophie shaking their hands, telling them hello. “That’s Luther over there. They’re a family. They found each other. A lot of us are like that, we found our on little family. Do you have a family?”

“I do,” Sophie said, trying to figure out why Connor was hiding behind her. “Broken a little, but still good.”

Kara, petite, one arm around Alice with the other holding Sophie’s hand, told her that was what made families stronger.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Sophie said, motioning to the man behind her, who had his head buried in her hair.

“I put your lives in danger, that’s what.”

Finally, he emerged behind Sophie, his safe space. He stood beside her and kneeled down to Alice’s level. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I put your lives in danger on the highway. It wasn’t really me.”  
But it was him now, and Kara and Alice forgave. Kara told him it was alright, she understood not being oneself. They forgave because he was who he was then and he had done good. He helped. He wasn’t a deviant hunter any longer.

Chloe continued the little tour through Jericho. Sophie met Kara, she met Alice, she met Luther and Simon. So many others who said Connor helped them, brought them components and blue blood. Saved them when the DPD wouldn’t, when the government ignored them. Sophie met Markus too.

She offered her hand when he approached the two, Sophie’s mouth dropping. He took it and he smiled at her, teased Connor when he introduced Sophie as his “lover.” Most people would have just said “girlfriend,” but not he. He preferred the term with the word “love” in it, because he did love her, and she was the one he doted his love to. Lover. It was a beautiful word he adored using.

“A human?” Markus asked, bewildered, though he did not judge. He only admitted the truth: he didn’t think it was possible.

“You? Really?” Connor asked, teasing him too. “You didn’t think it was possible?”

“Friendship, yes,” Markus admitted. “But…”

He looked at Sophie up and down. She wrapped her arm around Connor, her lover.

“I love him,” she said.

He believed her. That was all that mattered. Her love was so real to her—the realest thing she ever had known, all she wanted was for others to believe it too.

Markus spoke low to Connor after, Sophie wondering what they were saying, but Chloe grabbed Sophie’s hand as they held a conversation in hushed tones, and asked her how she was getting along. She responded with the truth, that things were going better than she thought, she couldn’t believe how sprawling the place was, with so many tents, so many androids helping one another, living.

“I like it here,” Chloe said. “I just wish…”

Chloe pursed her lips, but she admitted she wished more people cared. She felt isolated, lonely, and someday, sooner than they may have thought or want, they would run out of spare parts and blue blood.

“We have a small clinic of sorts,” Chloe said, pointing to the tower. “It’s in the upper floors of the tower. That’s where I spend most of my time. I help people that come in that are damaged. But with CyberLife not in operation, I…”

Chloe didn’t continue, but she didn’t have to. Sophie knew what it meant. She knew from the news that was the biggest debate of late—should androids have rights to maintain themselves and produce blue blood and spare parts, spare batteries for when the time came to change? CyberLife ceased operations with productions of androids, but there were those who were in favor of turning the company into one that not distributed androids, but maintained those that were already alive. Of course that brought the question of should androids be able to make more androids.

Connor came back, putting his arm around Sophie. “Hey,” he said. “What are you two talking about?”

“What were you two?” Sophie asked, hoping it was something happier.

His eyes drifted to the ground, and she knew it wasn’t. He and Markus spoke of another protest, he said.

“We were talking about this,” Chloe revealed. “A march to the capitol.”

She remembered when she saw him standing with Markus after bringing an army of Deviants from the very tower she stood by then. They won things peacefully, the song “Hold On,” forever the everlasting image of the night, but what was that night? Only the first phase? Sophie depressingly knew it to be true. Winning freedom was always in stages. History taught her that much.

“It began that night,” Sophie said. “It’s not over yet.”

“I thought I was going to die that night.”

Connor’s revelation broke her in two, broke Chloe as well. She touched his shoulder and Sophie squeezed his hand. She couldn’t imagine that. How brave he was to go headfirst into it that night. All because of guilt, determination, want to help and be free. But he didn’t die—he lived. Living was bravest of all.

“You’re alive though,” Sophie said. “And look at you. Look at us.”

Look at our story, she said silently, holding him in our arms. Look how it’s still being written.

“Oh shit.”

He saw something or someone in the corner of his eye, bewildering both Sophie and Chloe. “Connor?” Sophie asked, “Did something…?”

“No. “There’s a girl over there that, uh…”

He closed his eyes and nearly burrowed his face in the crook of her neck again, his staple for the night, going _shit, shit, shit._

“Connor, darling, sweetheart. Come on, don’t hide yourself. You’re braver than this, I know you took on armored guards and parkoured all over the city…What’s—"

“It’s _you_.”

Sophie straightened at the girl with the pulled back blue hair and brown eyes. She wore a dark hoodie and jeans, and had her arms crossed and lips pursed. Her expression was unreadable, yet she had a beauty that was both grounded yet ethereal, hinged with a world-weariness.

“A human?” she asked after a cursory glance at Sophie. “You brought a human here?”

“She’s very nice though,” Chloe mentioned.

Sophie blushed, wanting to disappear, but Connor wasn’t hiding anymore. He was looking at the blue-haired android straight in the eye.

“I love her,” he said.

The girl said nothing, but she regarded Sophie, understanding but not understanding.

“I’m sorry I put your lives in danger,” Connor said.

She took his apology, forgave him and moved on, back to another model with the same face but different hair—short brown hair. “Who…was that?” Sophie asked, tugging on Connor’s shirt. “Why did you try not see her?”

She was a Traci, from the Eden Club, Connor answered. He didn’t want to talk to her because she killed a man there, and Connor was asked to investigate it.

“I see,” Sophie said, again when he finished telling the full story, feeling dirty, feeling uncomfortable. Yet, Sophie reminded herself, she made it to Jericho, she made it out alive with the one she loved.

“Shit,” she muttered. “That… _shit_.”

“I know.”

“She loved so much she wanted to get back to her,” Sophie said. “That’s sweet.”

“I saw.”

He explained he saw them that night, how they held hands like Sophie and Connor often did, saw them entuned with each other even as they tried to fight Hank and him off.

“She would die if something happened to the one she loved. I knew,” Connor muttered.

“That was the night we met, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “That was the night we met.”

He wasn’t made to be touched or loved, he told her so, so many times. She had to teach him he was, he had to learn he was loved. For a man that said that so often, it never passed her how precious it was that he touched her and sought her touch so easily.

He wrapped his hand on her waist and brought her closer in that crowd of thousands.

“I didn’t know her then, but I do now. I can’t imagine that…being touched by someone that wasn’t you. I don’t want that, ever.” He shivered against her. He pulled her closer still. “No. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t love anyone else.”

They promised each other they loved. They talked of marriage. Yet marriage was such a human concept, to stand together and be connected through vows. When he spoke the universal _I don’t want anyone else,_ Sophie found that place in her heart that she had burrowed before, the place that wanted him to love again when she was gone. That place that knew that he would have to go on, and she would want him to go on.

And.

And…

And he was kissing her and whispering in her ear he had somewhere he wanted to show her. He had promises of taking her to his world and that secret part of him he hid away, but there was one final part and piece.

“Oh,” Chloe said, witnessing part of the public displays of affection. Sophie apologized on behalf of her over eager lover and herself getting caught in the moment, but she shrugged and said she didn’t mind. She would be off.

“Chloe, wait.”

Sophie took her hands after she turned back round. Chloe smiled, glad to have another new friend.

“Thank you,” Sophie said simply.

“It’s always been you, you know.”

She left and Sophie thought of her legacy, how it had always been her. She thought of it as Connor took her hand and took her through the tower to the elevator, to the highest room. Such a legacy to have with such a lover as he. Connor’s lover. Lover. Connor’s…Connor…

He was not assembled here, he said. It was elsewhere, but he always came back here after every mission. Analyzed, invaded.

“You weren’t made here?”

She hated saying "made," but he shook his head. “No,” he said. “there’s a place, close to the Warehouse. Most people don’t know. This is where they used to do research, and other things. They did store some here, but not all. ”

“Corporate,” Sophie said.

He nodded. They were still traveling far up, perhaps to the stars. “It doesn’t bother you to be here?” she asked, knowing she probably couldn’t do it, couldn’t be where it was cold and she was made to feel less than what she was.

“Not with you.”

Besides, he said, as he said earlier, there was something he wanted to show her. And when he took her to the highest room in the CyberLife Tower, he took her to part of his world.

There were no lights on in the sky room, only the light of the city down below and the stars up above. He took her hand and he took her outside. He was so afraid of falling, but he stayed far from the edge as Sophie looked at the view. Detroit. Not her city, but she made it her city. She fell in love in that city. She was wrapped in a blanket of the sky and lights of the city, free, living, in love.

“This place is gorgeous Connor!” She exclaimed, in that place between heaven and the earth. “It’s like a dream!”

“You are.”

They kissed, and he confessed he came here often when they were separated in that gap of time after their first kiss. It’s where he met Chloe again after sparing her life, where he connected with her and realized she was right and it was always Sophie.

“Connor, you say I’m a dream, but you’re a dream,” Sophie said, breathless at the edge of the world. “It’s true! You’re my dream. In my life, do you know how much I wanted to fall in love with someone good and kind? Someone beautiful? And I found you. You. You—”

She wrapped her arms around him. “I love you,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you too. But Sophie, you deserve—”

“No deserve,” she said. “Don’t talk about that.”

“You do all the time.”

He smirked as he caught her. It was true—Sometimes she told him he deserved to be loved and worshipped. The first time was when they were together in her bed, naked, still learning the intricacies of their intimacy. It shocked her when they were first together, how he tried to make the moment all about her and her pleasure. But it was about the two of them, and she wanted to make it about him too. She wanted to make him happy and she wanted to make him feel good over and over again. In her bed, her shower, against the wall…

She told him that, feel good for me, when they were together once in their early intimacy, wrapped over his humming body, when he was still in partial shock it was something he could experience. But he deserved it. He didn’t cry then, but she knew he was close to it, as much as he tried to hide it. He was learning that there were things that he did deserve in life, like presents at Christmas and feeling good with the one he loved. It broke her heart that he sometimes still saw the deviant hunter.

“I do,” she admitted, not wanting to get out of it, grasping his shoulders. “But that’s because we’re together. It makes me happy when you feel good, when I can do that to you.”

She stood on her tip toes to kiss him. He kissed her back. His eyes were still closed when she parted.

“I remember when we first kissed,” she whispered.

“I didn’t know how to kiss.”

She rested her cheek against him. “You learned exceptionally well.”

“You taught me how.”

“We taught each other,” she amended.

She loved his brown eyes because they were his brown eyes. He made them his own, he made the body he inhabited his own. His hands were his, and he cradled her face with them. She closed her eyes. His lips, not kissing her but warm and soft, were against her forehead and hair as he breathed in her scent.

“Your father was right,” he said. “Sophie. Oh Sophie. You just want love.”

“From you.”

“I want your love. I have it. I know. It makes me so happy.” He kissed her forehead, tenderly and softly. “But love. Love. I want everything with you. Be with you always…sleep with you…”

What he wanted was a life he had read about in books and deemed the golden ending of a happy marriage, happy wife, happy life, one day dying in his love’s arms. He wanted Odysseus’s ending with Penelope at the end of _The Odyssey_ , in her arms and asleep, his adventure threw and only gentle, normal living on Ithaca. He wanted to one day give her children, give her a life of growing together both physically and mentally. He wanted to wither with her, not be forever locked in the same body as he was the day they met.

“I want to sleep with you love,” he said again. “Sophie. I wish more than anything I could fall asleep with you holding me. But I can’t. I can’t. Every time I close my eyes I’m back there, and—”

He squeezed her shoulders. She straightened. “Where?” she asked, steadying him as he faltered.

“The garden. Kamski’s Zen Garden. Amanda used to meet me there, and—”

“Who’s Amanda?”

Kamski’s teacher, he said, and when Kamski made the interface and Zen Garden as a place for Connor and eventually others to go during “stasis mode,” he gave the program the face of his teacher, Amanda. He loved her. He had so much respect for her, his teacher who inspired him to both innovate and inspire himself without loosing his soul, that he hated, hated what CyberLife did to her. They made her cruel. Amanda wasn’t like that, not at all.

“He tried to tribute his teacher, and—”

Connor nodded, Sophie not needing to go on. “That’s what happened. They used her and the Zen Garden to…placate me. That’s why I can’t ‘sleep,’ or what you call sleep. I try to and I’m back there. Amanda’s gone, but it’s cold. And I don’t want it to happen again—I don’t want them to try to take control over me like they tried to before, and—” He closed his eyes. “They said I was meant to deviate and take control of the revolution. But it can’t be true. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I want to be me. I want to make my own decisions. I want me and only me to the one that brought me here.”

“It was,” Sophie promised.

“This is real,” he reminded himself, embracing her. “I know it’s real. I look at you and it’s overwhelming sometimes. It’s overwhelming how much I want to—”

He wasn’t letting go of her. She didn’t want him to let go. “Kamski told me, if I don’t sleep my battery will run out sooner. Sixty years or so now, maybe seventy. I’m not going to replace it when…”

He wasn’t going to say it. He kissed her instead. She felt herself sink into him. They sank into the stars.

“Everything dies. I want to die with you. And if…if something were…”

He put his hand over his chest, over the part of him that regulated his heartbeat. She was overwhelmed. She was going to cry. She wanted him to live and live gloriously, but…  
But what would she do without him?

She thought she could go on. But he was heaven, and living after tasting heaven…

“What if I want you to live Connor?” she asked. “What if I asked you to live for me when the time comes?”

“Hank would be gone too.”

“But you have people who care here.”

“What if life doesn’t get better for us? We’re running out of biocomponents, the things we need. The government shut down production of what we need to live.”

“We’re going to fight. We’re going to make it better.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

It was the last plea. “But you are here. You came into my life and you helped so many others here. You made your life your own.”

He closed his eyes. He moved to the ledge. She moved near him. He didn’t like heights—she didn’t like him near heights either, not since he told her he fell from a building. So much of their living was falling, but falling without being worried of the landing. He was her soft place to land.

“Sophie,” he said, and she fell, she fell, “Connor. He’s real.”

“He’s right here.”

“He was human.”

Connor was more than the Connor in front of her, Connor told her so and she continued to fall. Connor was a person—a human that Kamski knew once in college. He was young when he was in the accident—paralyzed and unresponsive. Catastrophic brain damage. The family kept him alive, for some reason or other, because they selfishly were waiting for the technology to get better. They held out hope science would develop a new tool to recover lost tissue, lost brain cells. Kamski told Connor that day he thought it was cruel to preserve him and wait—because by the time science could do that, everyone he knew would likely be gone. Science was at the point where it could preserve, but not give back what once was lost.

And someone else, someone in CyberLife, kept Connor alive in other ways.

They preserved his exact appearance, his exact build, even his voice, as an android. Kamski said it was the cruelest thing they ever did to him.

“I should have known,” Connor said, looking at the stars. “All androids. We’re based off of someone who was really alive once.”

“You are alive.”

They held hands. She said nothing, but in holding his hand, they were alive.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am alive.”

She couldn’t speak of the real—the human Connor. Only that she knew the pain of loosing someone was something she herself knew. It was cruel to keep Connor alive when maybe it wasn’t what he wanted, but what was she to do? What were they to do?

Her Connor, who to her was the real Connor, he may have looked as someone else, but he was all his own. He was all hers. And under the blanket of stars on top of the world, she brought him away from the edge. They were already falling in so many ways already. She wrapped her arms around him, and spoke of his created and forged soul. She kissed him and he kissed her back. It wasn’t easy, he said, to live a life not fully his own, because it wasn’t in so many ways. It wasn’t easy to remove himself from that and make a life that was all his own. But it was easy…so incredibly easy…to add her to his life and to his being. It was so easy to fall in love with her.

“Whatever happens,” she said, “whatever comes…however this will work, I want a life with you. You have a soul. You have my soul, and I want all my life with you.”

She admitted something else, kissing his hand. “I was so lonely before you. Please. Don’t make me be lonely. Not ever. Please.”

It didn’t scare her that it was the truth. She wasn’t afraid. How could she be afraid with him?

“You’ll never be lonely again.”

He did so much, changed so much. “You’re my favorite mission,” he said.

They held each other and she spoke of how beautiful it was there. “Take me again,” she whispered. “Let me be part of both parts of you.”

“I want to show you one more thing.”

He led her to the conservatory. She had been there as a child. Went during a field trip. She was lost amongst the flowers until her teacher found her. Pleasantly so, she wanted to say to the concerned teacher. She wanted to always be in flowers. Little did she know, fifteen years later, she would rather be lost amongst the flowers with Connor.

He guided her through the flowers, and he took her not to a hibiscus—there was only one hibiscus in the conservatory—herself—but to the forget me nots.

“I always thought they were pretty when I came here,” he said. “They mean undying love.”

“Devotion too,” Sophie said, unable to resist picking a few. “These and hibiscuses. They were my grandma’s favorite.”

“They bloomed after she passed.”

“Dad told you, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

The blue of the petals were comforting and vibrant. She held them in her hands, the early July blooms. She handed it to him, the bloom and her undying love and devotion.

“Forget-me-nots for you,” she said.

“You belong among the wildflowers.”

It was a song, she told him as she placed a bloom behind his ear, and he did for her. Tom Petty sang it. Dolly Parton also had a song about Wildflowers, and how they didn’t care where they grew. Sophie held Connor and called him a wildflower too, like he called her.

“When the time comes, I won’t want to replace it Sophie.” They danced amongst the flowers to their unheard song. “I can’t be human with you, but that’s alright. We don’t have to be human, or android, or anything…just us. But I want to follow your life.”

“But I want you to live.”

“Living. It means making my own decisions. It's not something I want when you're gone.”

He pressed his delicate lips against her cheek. He pressed his lips against his ear.

"I'm not going to live without you," he said. "I want to die with you by my side."

“My..."

But that was his vow. He sealed it with a kiss to make it so.

"You are stubborn,” she said.

They kissed among the flowers. It was his agreement, his love, his everything. He was her favorite forget-me-not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> so....comments keep me going and alive...<3


	42. Nostalgia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one. I hope you enjoy. I am quite, quite happy with this chapter :)

He thought of her to much and dreamed about her too little. In his blurred thoughts at night, she was Cleopatra with immortal longings in her, Hermione the statue coming to life, Juliet resting her cheek upon her hand, and he wanted nothing more than to be a glove upon that hand who might touch that cheek. She was Penelope, unraveling the loom every night, and in her arms, he was Odysseus. He was Odysseus and he came home.

She was home. She was home and she was Sophie and a hibiscus while he was a forget- me- not. He stood somewhere between android and human, mortal and immortal. Human with Sophie and with Hank, his own kind at Jericho. Now that his lover and his father both encouraged him, blend the two, he felt more his immortal longings. Ironic he would think of them at the moment he made it clear he would not upkeep himself, that he would follow the life of the woman he loved as best he could.

How he wanted more than anything to drift to sleep in her arms, or when his head was resting on her lap. They tried something of the sort that night they got home after dancing among the forget-me-nots, and she let him mimic falling asleep on her lap, fingers running through his hair as she also caressed his face and left little kisses. He wanted a thousand more.

“I loved you the moment I saw you,” she whispered to him. “I think I loved you even when you still had the telltale LED on his forehead, even when you didn’t know who you were yet. I had never seen a man so beautiful, and it wasn’t because you were made in the exact image of another. It was because you were you, and you cared, and you made me burn that night. Connor. I’m still on fire.”

“Can you have loved me without really knowing me?” he asked, stubbornly so. But he wanted to be loved by her because she knew who he truly was.

“It never felt wrong to be with you. Even when I was embarrassed in the bookshop, sticking my hips out trying to get you to notice, you were always so right.”

He asked her if he was so right, why didn’t she want him to die with her.

“Everything dies,” he said. “I want to die when you die.”

She closed her eyes as he peered at her. She wove a story of dark and forbidden love, ones she had read about in books, some she had acted in. It scared her how all-consuming it was, how it could turn someone into the worse version of themselves right alongside the best. She wanted to be his partner, his someday wife, (Yes, she dreamed of the two of them making a vow of that sort.) Yet she never wanted him to think he couldn’t live without her.

It wasn’t about living without her, he said, though he never said it was not part of it. It was wanting to make his life his own. And maybe the truth of the matter was he couldn’t be his own, or anything, if he wasn’t hers.

“Go to sleep Connor,” she whispered again. “Sleep with me.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going back there Sophie. This. It’s enough.”

“It would be enough if you lived.”

That night past, and another. They got better. They kissed and they made their own version of love. She always held his face in her hands afterward, kissed his forehead as he shivered and came. They went to work, and Sophie made plans to direct a show she didn’t tell Connor about, because she wanted him to be surprised when the time came. It was all part of the Renaissance’s new play showcase, and when she and the others had auditions for it, she came home giddily exclaiming she assembled the right two people. He, Dad, Mrs. Fitz, Sophie and Richard spent time together on the fourth of July. He and his lover kissed during the fireworks. She went back with him to Jericho. Chloe had suddenly become one of Sophie’s dearest friends. She, Gaby and Sophie even shopped together and developed a friendship. Why Chloe went to the gym with them was a mystery, but she provided “good support,” as Sophie said. At Jericho, they made plans to march to the capitol and demand equal rights. Her mother called She couldn’t wait for Sophie to come down with her boyfriend. Oh yes, another thing, she couldn’t wait to meet “Connor Anderson,” the boy from the bookshop who now worked at the DPD. Connor Anderson? He asked when he overheard that tidbit, and Sophie shrugged, admitting she came up with that fib months ago when her mother asked, though there was a lot of truth to the name.

Connor asked Sophie to tell her mother the truth about him. She could not find the right opportunity. It remained unsaid. He hoped the opportunity would come before they met face to face.

“She used to have an android,” Sophie said. “Kate.”

Connor felt himself tense. “Is she still there?”

“She was. I don’t know anymore.”

“Maybe she found her way out.”

“Maybe.”

They booked their trip to Florida to meet her mother, but they also had other plans that involved a certain mouse. Sophie was much more excited for their trip to Disney World than she was seeing her mother. The tickets and hotel was all Connor’s birthday gift to her. It was what she wanted, but more so, she wanted it with him. Her prince, she called him, kissing his cheek as they booked the trip online. He felt a prince when she kissed him, it was true. He offered to pay for a suite at the what Sophie referred to as “bougie” Grand Floridian hotel with the good food and the deluxe bath and shower, but Sophie suggested they go economical, thinking they’d spend more time at the parks versus the hotel room. He only said he wanted her to be comfortable in the bed when he was between her thighs. She smiled at that, glowed at how good she said he was to her. Sometimes she admitted she didn’t think she deserved it.

She deserved so many things, like a human lover that would grow old with her, but there she was not thinking she deserved him. How he loved her.

 

* * *

 

 The Saturday afternoon before they were set to leave, she came back from the mall with at least eight packages in her arms. Her white dress with sunflower designs swished around her knees, sunglasses propped the top of her head. “Hello darling!” she exclaimed, dropping the packages and dashing into his arms. Her kisses stained him red but they were his favorite sort of stain. While gone she also had trimmed her hair down to her shoulders. She had something to show him, she said.

“You went with Gaby and Chloe?” Connor asked as Sophie rummaged.

“Yep,” Sophie replied. “Both are good. Gaby is annoyed I won’t be around for a few rehearsals, but the show isn’t until November. She likes Chloe a lot though.”

“I can’t believe she inserted herself into your friend group,” Connor mused.

“I actually invited her,” Sophie said. “We’re all a part of the island of misfit toys. We work pretty well together.”

Connor’s grin, (he understood that reference.) turned to a frown as Sophie revealed the thing she promised to show. With a grand flourish and a “ta-da,” she showed him a pair of navy shorts. “Swim trunks,” she called them.

“We’re going to go…swimming?”

“My mother lives in Tampa love. The beaches nearby aren’t as pretty as Hawaii, but they are pretty. Plus, it is my birthday. What else did you think we would do there?”

“An Aquarium?” he suggested. He had been looking them up. They were intriguing.

“I’ll take you there,” she promised. “We’ll go anywhere. But I promise you. You’ll love the beach. Even if you don’t swim, it’s the most peaceful place in the world.”

He didn’t think he wanted to swim, but he would give it an honest effort. Perhaps the dip he was forced to take before the first Jericho exploded soured his view on the matter. But he made the promise, and was much more enthusiastic about it too when he saw the yellow polka dot bikini Sophie pulled out. Chloe picked it out for her, even though Sophie was leery about wearing a bikini. Connor was going to have to thank her later.

They packed the last of the things that needed to be packed, and as they finished, Connor asked if Sophie told her mother yet.

She bit her lip. “I think she should meet you first,” she rationalized, using her hands as she packed the last of their clothes and toiletries. “I told her all about you, that I love you and it’s serious, but—"

“But you didn’t tell her I’m an android.”

“You’re Connor more than anything,” she said lowly, zipping the suitcase up loudly and tossing it off the bed.

He didn’t respond. Being “Connor” was tainted somewhat after Kamski revealed what he revealed about the human who inspired Connor’s likeness, and to a certain degree, his original function as a detective android. He worried he was an imitation of that Connor, not belonging to anyone but remaining on some different plane of being. Tell me I’m yours Sophie, he begged her nights ago. If he couldn’t belong to himself, he could belong to her.

“You need to tell her,” Connor said. “Are you worried it’s because they still have their android?”

Sophie admitted that much. It was a fact she wasn’t proud of. “I’m worried she won’t understand,” she muttered. “I’m worried about a lot of things. But hey maybe Kate’s not there anymore.”

He was still certain Sophie should inform her mother before leaving so she could get used to the idea. Besides, some people did know who Connor was, the android there after the battle for Detroit. In fact, some people knew him from the viral video of him chasing Rupert across the Urban Farms. His appearance may have been unassuming enough, but that didn’t stop some people from knowing who he was, like Monica, Hank’s ex-wife. People saw what they wanted to see. It was possible Connor would be recognized.

“I promised I would call her anyway,” Sophie said. “Alright.”

She dialed on the couch with Connor next to her, petting Tybalt. “Hey mom,” Sophie began. “We’re really happy to be seeing you. Um, yeah. We’re good. Yes we are still going to Disney World, that’s paid for. Okay. I just—I needed to tell you that Connor is… uh…”

“Connor’s what?” he heard her mother ask.

There was a long pause, and in that long pause Connor knew it was not going to happen. She was not going to tell her. He sank.

“Connor is excited to meet you,” she said. “That’s all.”

She ended the call. She plead with her eyes.

He tried not to raise his voice. “Soph—”

“I’m sorry,” she said, sighing. “I just…I think it needs to be done in person.”

“You told your dad with no problem.”

“Dad is different,” she pointed out.

“Look, I wish your mother could have seen your show…” he admitted, and oh, he was going to have words about that too. But Crystal was Sophie’s mother.

Sophie picked up Tybalt and stroked his back. “I know.”

Was it finally becoming real, that she would wither and he would not? “Is it because of what we talked about at Jericho?” Connor asked.

“No,” she answered. She scooted closer to him. “Connor. I’m going to love you no matter what my mother thinks. Be with you no matter what anyone thinks, if you will have me. We have—things, that we do need to talk about, discuss, but—"

“I thought I made it obvious what was going to happen.”

“We need to make a plan,” she said, wavering. “A real plan of what’s going to happen and what we’re going to do.” She played with the buttons on his shirt. “But Connor, darling. Now I just want…”

“Sex doesn’t solve any problems.”

She smiled when he repeated her own words of wisdom, but she made it clear that even though she wanted him to feel good for her, she wanted the two of them to just be like any other couple, who went to Disney World together and got way too into it with coordinating outfits and mouse ears.

So Mickey had Minnie, Connor had Sophie. They were going to Disney World and they were going to get way too into it. It was, truly, everything he wanted.

 

* * *

 

For better or for worse he lived like a human with his father and Sophie, like an android at Jericho. He was somewhere in the middle of the two like he and Sophie’s relationship stood somewhere in the middle of things, with even their lovemaking somewhat representative of that. Connor forgot all of that when they jetted off to Florida. There was something about being in a little tin can in the air that sent his thoughts far and away, just like he was going far and away from the only place he had ever known. Then again, maybe home was not a place but a name. And if that was the case, which he was sure it was, Sophie was his home.

Home danced in the middle of Mainstreet USA, Cinderella’s castle as her backdrop. She wore so many costumes on stage, but she was all her own in that short-sleeved cherry red dress with buttons down the middle, and gold sandals she claimed were comfortable, but Connor suspected he would be carrying her out of the park by closing time. All this came together with a pair of mouse ears with a red bow in the center at the top of her head. He forwent matching Mickey ears, but he did coordinate and wear a red flannel shirt to match with her. She was all her own and a princess of the modern era in front of the blue and white castle, all so wonderfully Sophie.

She called him the best gift, her treasure. She took him in her arms, not saying anything about how they didn’t say anything about him being an android as they went through the metal detectors and security.

“We’re here,” she said as they walked to the castle, closer to the entrance of the various sections of the Magic Kingdom. In the courtyard she pulled out her phone from Connor’s navy backpack and snagged a picture of Walt Disney holding Mickey Mouse’s hand. “Come here,” she said, “let’s take a picture in front of the castle!”

A couple saw Connor stick his arm out to get the best photo with the castle in the background and offered to take the photo of them. They took several. Two normal ones, and one kiss, Sophie thanking the woman after and sending the photos to Gaby and her father.

“We’re here,” she said again, pulling him into her arms. “Connor…”

He kissed her hand. “Happy birthday my love,” he said.

“You’ve made it the best.”

You, she said. Not Walt Disney or Mickey Mouse, but him. He bit his lip. He didn’t want to cry on such a day.

He didn’t cry, yet Sophie did. She had to wipe the tears from her face when Mickey Mouse emerged from the castle and welcomed all into the park, claiming place to be a place where all should feel welcome and experience the “magic.” Connor begged her not to cry, as swept his thumb over her teary cheeks and the park officially opened. Disney World was no place for tears.

She smiled, wiping the last stray droplets from her cheeks. “I’m happy.”

“But you’re crying,” he insisted. “Crying’s not good. You’re supposed to let it out… yes,” that’s what his dad said after all, “but I thought coming here would make you happy. Oh Sophie, was it something I did? I—”

“No!” She exclaimed quickly, “no, you silly, handsome man, no.” She stood on the tips of her toes and kisses his cheek once, twice. “I’m happy,” she announced. “I’m happy because I never got to come here as a little girl, and now I’m here with you, I get to be a little girl again kind of…and oh let’s meet Ariel!”

They did some very adult things the previous night, he pointed out. She merely laughed, and as she kissed him again, he thought of the power of nostalgia in her. Nostalgia. Sometimes he even thought he felt that elusive feeling somewhere buried in his mechanical heart when he saw Sophie flick her hair over her shoulder or bit her lip like she used to do when they first knew each other in the bookshop and everything was so new. Sometimes she smiled at him and he remembered the first smile. Perhaps it wasn’t so farfetched, to think that if he could feel love, and he did, he could have nostalgia. Maybe one day he would cry out of happiness, like Sophie could. She had a gift of tears. Perhaps one day, she could pass it on to him.

As he led her to Ariel’s grotto, navigating through Fantasyland so she could finally meet that little mermaid, he asked her what drew her to the story and what made her love it so much that she was compelled to tell it to him that night. She watched the Disney movie as a child she replied, and later her mother read her the original fairy tale, the one that she would later pass to her lover. Mermaids were always a thing with her. She loved swimming and the oceans and felt comfort being submerged in water. She spoke of closing her eyes under the water, floating and weightless, and he to think of what it was like to be under the sea.

“Would you like to be under the sea?” she asked playfully, standing in line. The first of many that day.

He thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, surrounded the different colored fish that looked like blots of colors darting along. Maybe there was a time when he thought of swimming away, like Sophie said she did once. It was fuzzy. But there were flashes. Broken glass, water, different colored fish, a dwarf gourami…

He couldn’t remember the rest.

In line to meet Ariel he had a moment of disillusionment, pointing out it wasn’t really going to be “Ariel,” but Sophie smacked him. Too, a nearby parent glared at him. “She is real,” Sophie said, louder, before they had a bigger accident on their hands. “She is.”

He guessed believing made it so.

It was finally their turn. Connor regarded the woman with flame red hair, cerulean blue eyes and heart shaped face. He didn’t get a good look at her before they were face to face. He expected everything but what he knew her to be.

She was an android.

“Is he your prince?” Ariel asked Sophie, taking her hands in hers. “He’s very handsome.”

“He is my prince,” Sophie said, proud, casting a dreamy glance at him, so she didn’t see “Ariel’s” moment of delighted surprise when she recognized Connor as both an android as well and proud prince to his own little mermaid. During the exchange Sophie had with her childhood idol, “Ariel” went on about how she met her “Prince Eric,” and rescued him from the sea. Sophie asked what they liked to do for dates.

“Walking along the beach,” she said with a laugh. “Do you like the beach?”

“I do,” Sophie replied, “going to take him someday. I hope he likes it.”

“You’ll be there,” Connor said. “I will.”

They took a picture, Sophie hugging Ariel one last time after, with even Connor shaking her hand. She spoke to him, not through words but through a transmission, something Markus sometimes did when he wanted to get a hold of Connor.

This is a place for us, she said. Any place can be a place for us.

He wasn’t the only android in the park, he found out later. Many androids worked in food stands and operating rides, but as Connor learned from Sophie, they were paid employees. Many of the characters from various Disney movies were also androids like Ariel was, and as he met Snow White, Peter Pan, Aurora, and others (Even Woody, who he had to admit he was quite excited to meet,) he thought of himself, also forged in the image of another, and how he could always think of that or how he could make his own life. He was so much like them all, Ariel most of all and for reasons beyond the basic. Like Ariel in the story, he longed for an immortal soul.

Could he make himself content with having Sophie’s pass on to him? He thought he could, especially with that particular wildflower Sophie, who flourished and came to life in Florida. He had seen a bright and happy Sophie before, but this Sophie was different. Childlike, full of wonder, and always smiling, always leaving a kiss on his cheek or his hand from one line to the next. Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, all the mountains, then lunch at Beauty and the Beast’s Castle, the insides decorated with stained glass windows. They stood in line to get ice cream afterward, Sophie licking the cone before it could melt. Some of the sweetness got on her nose. She giggled as his thumb wiped it away. The ice cream was sticky on his fingertip.

“Wait, what are you…?”

He sampled it against his tongue, the ice cream cold sugar and artificial flavors, but otherwise tasteless. He wasn’t sure what he expected. He didn’t eat, didn’t taste things. Though he swore, he could always taste her. Salt and musk and Sophie. She was his favorite taste.

“I sampled it,” he said. “You probably don’t want to know what’s in it.”

“I can guess.”

He inched closer, so they were a breath apart. “You’re sweeter you know. Much sweeter.”

“So are you.”

There was something about Disney World that made her kiss him more. Not that he didn’t mind. Kisses sustained and revitalized him. They made him a better man.

He made her put on more sunscreen and drink more water—it was hot and he didn’t want her to get sunstroke. Sophie held his hand during The Haunted Mansion, and she raised them up as they descended the seven dwarves mine cart. He learned it was indeed, a small world after all. They watched the fireworks from the castle at night, and sure enough he was carrying her out of the park and she was wearing much more sensible shoes the next day at Hollywood Studios. The ears however, stayed.

By the last day of their stay, they were at Epcot, walking from one area in the World Showcase to the next, Sophie eating along the way. “Practice,” Sophie called, for when they went everywhere.

“You want to travel the world with me?”

He stopped her. They were in the Germany at the time, ready to go to the next world, Sophie halfway through eating an apple strudel with vanilla sauce.

“Of course!” She exclaimed. “First Hawaii, then wherever you want to go.”

“Egypt,” he said automatically. He wanted to stand in something ancient like the Pyramids and see another world, another time. “Greece,” he muttered as well. “I want to discover everything.”

“Greece?” Her interest piqued. “We have to go swimming there. And Hawaii too. You have to come into the water with me.”

“When we get to your Mother’s, I promise. I’ll swim.”

She beamed, but that sunshine quickly dissipated as she was reminded of how tomorrow was the day. They were going to do it. They were going to met her mother.

“I want to meet her Sophie,” Connor said. He did though, have to admit he wished she would have said something sooner.

“I want her to meet you first,” Sophie replied, the argument she gave a hundred times before. “She’ll see who you are, see your soul. She’ll love you and then she’ll know, and by then she’ll understand.”

He hoped she was right. But then they were walking through the world showcase and they were imagining all the places they would go. He wanted to discover, he wanted to learn and travel and see. He only wanted it with her.

First Disney World, Hawaii next. Egypt, Greece, India, Japan. Anywhere. This one, one very important thing first.

 

* * *

 

They rented a car to drive to her mother’s. They probably could have flown from Orlando to Tampa, but Sophie had two methods to her madness. One, the car gave them a freedom away from her the house and family when they needed it, and two, Sophie just enjoyed long car rides. Part of him did too. Soaring along the highway, cruising and free, images of the two of them dancing and holding hands and making love swayed as the trees and buildings zoomed by. They listened to songs he had never heard of before, songs that meant something to them and made him remember how good the first kiss was, how good every kiss has been since.

“We have to do something for your birthday,” she said about thirty minutes in, wistful.

“I don’t have a birthday per se,” he muttered. “I was created. August fifteenth was my first mission.”

“When did you meet Hank?”

“November fifth.”

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” she chanted. “There it is. That’s your birthday.”

“November fifth?” A good day. “So, I’d be one year old this year.”

“Oh God Connor, please do not put it like _that_.”

He promised he wouldn’t. He was like the Tuck family in _Tuck Everlasting_ , immortal and displaced from time. Birthdays probably didn’t mean much if that was the case, but he was going to make it mean something to him. He was going to cheat time and live the course of her life with her. He was going to do it no matter what Sophie said, but that was a discussion for another day. Sophie put on Hamilton.

“Sometimes I think we’d still be strangers if I never started playing this,” Sophie as Eliza sang the final, resounding _it’s only a matter of time_. How fitting, as it was only a matter of time for Alexander and Eliza, it was only a matter of time for Connor and Sophie.

“You think so?” He himself had his doubts. Sophie was a wildflower before they really talked. He was convinced if they hadn’t bonded when they did, he would have stood between the bookshelves and one day blurted out “I like you!” until she said something back. Knowing Sophie she would have blushed and laughed, then stood on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. He would have had to prove he was worthy of her, the perfect woman, if they became Sophie and Connor through another way. Like tales of knights he would woo her, but instead what happened was they were both taken along, both fell, and he learned the art of love. She taught him her ways, and he turned to books for more aide.

There was no aide for them anymore, or if there ever was. Juliet, Elizabeth Bennett, Cleopatra, Penelope, Guinevere…none of them were his Sophie. And he could see parts of himself in a thousand different characters, but none of those people were her Connor. He couldn’t be his own or anything if he wasn’t hers. She made him happy, and even if she didn’t and even his happiness was broken and artificial, it didn’t stop how real it felt. She was his family and his home, his love and his soul. Wildflower and soul, Sophie. Sophia.

He kissed her hand as she pulled up to the house. Crystal and her husband Luke Anticosti had money, that was for sure, but Sophie did tell him that. She pulled out her phone, sent her mother the text we’re here, and leaned in. They kissed chastely but intensely.

“Well,” Sophie said, “Let’s go.”

They walked up the entryway. She took a deep breath. She squeezed his hand. The door opened. Sophie’s mother broke the distance between them and embraced her daughter tightly, apologizing for missing the play and kissing her on the forehead. Her mother was a hugger and a kisser. That was where Sophie got it.

She looked at Connor. She was just as tall as Sophie, but that meant Connor was still a head taller. She put her hand on his shoulder, the boy from the bookshop, “Connor Anderson,” that had always enamored Sophie. How Sophie looked like her mother. They had the same hair nearly, the same eyes and similar structure of the face, though Sophie had a wider nose and darker skin. Still there was no mistaking it that they were mother and daughter.

“It’s good to meet you,” Dr. Crystal Anticosti of English Rhetoric said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I wished I could have met you during _The Winter’s Tale_.”

Sophie hit the back of his leg with her foot. That was her first warning, but Connor wasn’t done. He wasn’t done by a long shot.

He shook Crystal’s hand. She responded neutrally, that she is so sorry she missed it, but there would be more opportunities, she was sure. She ushered them in after, Sophie merely waving at the tall and dark-haired Luke Anticosti, dressed comfortably for summer in shorts and a t-shirt. Luke introduced himself to Connor and they shook hands. He asked if Sophie wanted any water. She was good, she replied.

“What about you Connor?”

All he had to do was say he was fine. They would tell them later. That was what they decided. All later. Always later.

Connor straightened. “No,” he said. “I don’t need any. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Kate can—”

“Kate?”

“Yes?”

An AX400. The AX400 Sophie mentioned. He didn’t forget but he had hoped she would have found her own way like Sophie said her mother was alluding to. She stared at Connor. Connor stared back.  
Kate deserved to find her own way.

“You were driving for a while,” Crystal pointed out, going back to the water. “You two should have a drink. Kate, can you—"

“I’m an android too.”

Crystal didn’t say anything. Neither did Luke. And Sophie covered her face in her hands, not wanting it to happen this way. It was too late. He was raising his hand and he was showing them how his skin deactivated, how different from them he was and how one of his people, free but not free, was caged. She was caged, and he was free to love. It wasn’t fair.

“I’m an android,” Connor said. “I was created. I was made. I don’t live like you do. I stand out of time.” And he was never, never going to forget that.

The silence overwhelmed. “I’m an android,” he said. “And I love your daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couple of things:
> 
> 1\. I went to Disney World December of 2018. obviously things would change by 2039, but there is a definite timelessness to disney world. Also , I headcanon many of the characters from disney movies were made into androids for the kids, and after the revolution many kept their jobs, making little kids (and big kids like Sophie) happy.
> 
> 2\. things are going to unravel. things are going to spiral. I am both excited and nervous for what's coming up. 
> 
> love you all! :)


	43. When it was a Sequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of stuff happened last time. You can kind of say the same for this chapter, but it's the aftermath. So...  
> Enjoy :)

“Is it serious Sophia Noelle?”

Sitting on the bed, Sophie clenched the purple floral bedsheets she slept in during that week in July and that week in November during Thanksgiving, the designated times she could visit her mother. Sophie liked purple, she liked flowers, so her mother bought it for her when she and Luke bought their Tampa house. She hated that bedspread she would have loved anywhere else. That was the thing about her room—her mother made it for her in the image of the things she would have loved. It was why she displayed all the paintings of hibiscuses and forget-me-nots Sophie made for Mothers Days and Christmases. But the paintings were for her, not Sophie. The room was a hollow place.

Her mother couldn’t look Sophie in the eye. She hadn’t been able to since Connor’s statement. She really had the gall to ask if it was serious.

Sophie rose from the bed. She wasn’t going to do this.

“Sophie—”

“Really?” Sophie demanded, throwing her hands in the air, hands slapping against her thighs, deciding she was going to do this. “That’s what you ask?”

“Is it serious, Sophia Noelle?”

“I told you I loved him over the phone,” Sophie said through gritted teeth.

“Loved?”

“I love him,” Sophie corrected. “I love him. I love Connor. Connor is an android, and I love him!”

Her voice became a gradual crescendo, it all culminating in throwing herself back on that bedspread she hated. It was a big show and performance, but she spoke not one lie. Every god damn word was true and so was every god damn feeling of love she had since she met Connor and since she stuck her hips out in the bookstore for him to see. Fuck anyone who didn’t think so.

“I see where he gets it,” her mother muttered. “I shouldn’t have imagined anything else.”

Sophie ignored the sting. “I stand by him,” she hissed.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because you would have…”

But she shook her head and didn’t continue. Since Connor took center stage her mother had been a whirlwind of different emotions. First disbelief, then shock as Connor lifted his hand and showed he wasn’t making it up. After there was confusion, followed by polite yet stifled cordiality as Connor shifted from someone she wanted to get to know because her daughter was dating him, to android like the one that still lived in their home. She shifted to pale and cold, as Luke noted Connor looked familiar…was he that guy from the viral video? And Connor replied he was involved in the events of Detroit.

“Just a fucking deviant,” he muttered under his breath. They all still heard.

That was when Kate left. Luke went after her. Connor went after her too. He brought her back to the house. He had his arm wrapped around her as the three shuffled in, said everything was going to be alright. Then Luke went to the store and took Kate with him, presumably because he could run away, so he was. Connor went to sit outside, sat, and the silence between Sophie and her mother wasn’t so silent anymore as she asked Sophie if they could talk in her room. And the first thing she dared ask was if it was serious or not.

“How was I supposed to tell you?” Sophie asked, exasperated. “Was I supposed to say, ‘oh by the way. I know you have an android still living with you, because you claim she wants to stay and all. I know you and your husband bought into CyberLife’s bullshit. But oh sure, let’s give her a name. But no. Not a person, no. So yes Mother, just casually over the phone, I was going to tell you my boyfriend and my lover is an android.”

“Lover?” Her face twisted, Sophie fell. “How can—”

“Mother!”

Her mother raised her hands, tried to touch and find something tangible that she just couldn’t. Her face was all red, her eyes trailed on the floor. Alright, Sophie contested. She should have told her the truth about Connor when he first began working in the bookshop. She met him in the park before the revolution as she was crying about Anthony and life and everything. Then he started working with her when Mrs. Fitz hired him, and the whole thing was like a big romantic comedy until they danced in her living room and she started to really fall.

But it was always real. Part of her always loved him.

“And you know what Connor would say Mom? Connor would say it was impossible that I loved him from the first, because we didn’t know each other. He wants to be loved for being himself. Did you know that?”

“Sophie—”

She wasn’t stopping. “He reads a lot. So many books. Classic, contemporary, he doesn’t care. He reads about others in novels to learn and become his own person. But he is his own person and he’s so much more. He’s kind. He cares. He thinks about everything. He cries into his dad’s shoulder and the dog wags his tail every time he walks in the room. My cat nuzzles his forehead and wants him to pet him all the time. His favorite movie is _Toy Story_. He likes it because he says the toys are brought to life by love, like he was in a way. He loves me Mom. He kisses fucking good and—”

She wasn’t going to mention that to her mother.

“At Disney World,” she continued, cheeks hot, “he got emotional when he met Woody. And Ariel. I told him the story of the little mermaid like you told me you know, and he begged for a happy ending at first. But I continued and I told him that the Little Mermaid was able to forge her own soul through her love. And then he learned, bittersweet endings are the best. He’s read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ too. He loves it. He wants to be a lawyer, like Atticus Finch I think. He wanted me to tell you sooner about this. He wanted you to get used to the idea. ButI wanted you to meet him first, because if you knew him you would understand him and you were going to know we’re real. But—”

She held her face in her hands, shook her head. She felt her mother sit next to her, rub her back.

“I’m sorry,” Her mother said. “Soph—”

“Yeah,” Sophie interjected. “It’s serious. It’s so serious I want him to marry me. I’ve even thought about the hula I’d do for him after.”

She thought about a lot of things with Connor. She was certain of one thing above all. “He’d be an amazing husband.,” she said. “Shit. I’d be a pretty cool wife too.”

“But Sophie,” she stopped rubbing her back, “how are you going to have children?”

“ _Mother_!”

“What?”

Sophie had to hold back. “You teach a class on Women’s Rhetoric and the gendered language people use with women. You’ve written at least ten articles on problematic dialogues women in the public eye have endured. You are really going to ask me how I am going to have children?”

“If you want children,” she amended, only alleviating it somewhat. “God Sophie. Does he even have…” She blushed. “Well, does he—”

“No,” Sophie stated plainly.

There was only one word for it. Her mother looked utterly disgusted and Sophie wanted to run. She was about to ask “how” but Sophie told her she didn’t need to know, it worked for them and they enjoyed themselves and that was all that mattered.

“What’s going to happen when you get older and he looks the same?” she suddenly demanded. “Do you want be eighty years old and have a lover who looks twenty-five? He could go back to his own kind, or—”

“Don’t.”

“Sophie—”

“We’re not stupid. We’ve talked about this. We know it’s going to happen.”

“And?”

“He’s not fully immortal Mother. He wants to live his life with me. How is that different from anyone else?”

A lot of things that her mother had already said and she wouldn’t again were different for the two of them. Her mother said none of that. Instead she told Sophie that the truth was that you never really know anyone. You could be married for twenty years and still not know.

“I know Connor,” Sophie said.

“You know him today,” she countered. What about tomorrow or the next day? You…Anthony…”

“Please don’t,” Sophie asked. “Don’t bring him into this. I don’t think Anthony and I would have lasted anyway Mom. We were better friends. We got together because it was convenient. With Connor it was thrilling and it was right. He’s my friend but he’s my love and I don’t expect him to be the same ten years from now or even tomorrow. But that’s okay. That’s human. I trust him enough to know when he changes, he’ll grow.”

Her mother’s face was blank. Sophie wanted to run. And then—

Anthony. Always Anthony. Always it would be back to him.

“You may have stayed together with him,” she said. “You don’t know.”

“You could have stayed with Dad.”

The sharp intake of breath that followed shrunk Sophie to less than a woman and into a little girl. Her mother was about to say something, but she stopped herself before she could. With nothing more to say she left her room, or the poor imitation of a room she would want to be in. She stuck her hands in her dress pockets. She thought Connor’s lucky coin would give her luck. It always had before. She supposed everything had bad days.

Her love was kneeling in the small garden by the side of the fence near the in-ground pool. She went outside to meet him, to give him a thousand apologies. The garden he admired was not likely her mother’s work—Sophie suspected Kate. Certainly though, her mother asked her to plant hibiscus and not any other flower. Like Sophie, she used too used to live in Hawaii once. She loved the hibiscus there too. Sophie brought that love to Connor.

Connor. Connor, who in his hand, from her mother’s garden, held a bloom of a fallen red bloom.

“They’re here,” he said, knowing already she was the one behind him. “Who would have thought?”

Sophie kneeled by his side She had a brief longing of that little girl savagery she once had, to stick her hands in the dirt, not caring if it got under her nails or in her hair. She sighed with nostalgia, and Connor handed her the red bloom. She preferred pink. He knew that he said, but as he liked to be marked by her pink lipstick, he also liked to be marked by her red.

“I wouldn’t have ever have guessed how much you would like lipstick.”

He grinned with the remembrance of the stains she left on all places of his face but his mouth in that little game they used to play.

“I do,” he admitted. “I’d like…”

But he smirked and said no more. She had an inkling of an idea.

“I think I know,” she said, moving over, whispering in his ear. “You want them everywhere.”

He nodded giddily, boyish. She pressed her lips to his cheek, and though her pink plum color had rubbed off long before they made it to her mothers, he still laughed at the feeling of her. It was more than she deserved.

She closed her eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek.

“Con…”

“It’s my fault.”

They sank into the grass by the flowers. She held his red hibiscus bloom in her hand as he apologized for letting the truth come out that way. He shouldn’t have done that in the way he did, but he was frustrated. It wasn’t fair. Why should he be free and in love when more of his people didn’t have that?

“I know,” he said. “This is one of the worst things I’ve done, right up there with the time I left you for a month. I’m sorry. I just wish—”

“I was afraid of her judging me.”

The truth came out. All Sophie’s life her mother judged her choices. Wanting to be an actress, wanting to major in theatre, and then not quitting when she didn’t get many opportunities to act in college. She was judged for falling in with Mrs. Fitz and working with her, judged for starting the Renaissance with her friends and then judged for retreating into a hole and not acting when Anthony died. And meeting him, Connor, and falling, it was so easy. It was thrilling and it was scary how easy he made it to fall in love with him.

“To know you is to love you,” Sophie said, resting her head on his shoulder, her leg pressed next to his much longer one. “And…”

“I see.”

She sighed though. “You were right. I should have told her, damn what she thinks about my choices. Not like I ever cared anyway. I’m still an actress after all.”

“You’re the best. You see people that aren’t real, aren’t alive. And you make them alive. You let them breathe. It’s incredible Sophie, what you can do. She should see that and see us. I’m sorry I didn’t ask why, sorry I did that. It is on the list of bad things I’ve done.”

Bashful, he peered at her from underneath dark lashes. “Forgive me?” he asked.

“Forgive me,” she countered.

“I should have asked. Or known. Shouldn’t have been so—”

“Honestly? That performance was everything. I’m actually quite, quite proud. And I think you deserve a round of applause.”

He smirked. “I don’t know. Rather have a kiss.”

They kissed. As they kissed, Sophie made the bold suggestion that they leave that foul and rotten place and place and enjoy Tampa and its splendors independent of her mother. They had a few days till they had to be back at Orlando International to fly back to Detroit anyway. They deserved to make it their own. She also wanted to see him in those swim trunks.

“There’s an aquarium we could go to,” she mentioned, tantalizing him. “I know you said you wanted to go, and, well….no time like the present, right?”

He grinned. He said there was no other place he wanted to be.

They picked themselves up from the grass, dusted the flyway blades off their backsides. The sliding door opened as Sophie was almost done and ready to leave. She expected her mother. It was Luke.

“Hey,” he said to Connor, pushing his glasses up on his Roman nose and balding dark hair up. “Uh, thanks for going after Kate.”

“How is Kate?” Connor asked.

Good, he replied, and Connor shifted. This whole thing…Sophie should have done something, said something sooner. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened the way it did. Connor carried so much guilt. It was one of the first raw and intense conversations they had in the bookshop, when Hank was still unsure he should work at the DPD. He carried guilt on his shoulders but was learning to alleviate it. To meet Kate, who seemed happy and was free but not free…

“Look,” Luke said. “I…she’s important to us. After the government did that big recall it broke me to give her up, broke us all, but she came back to us. She found a way—”

Connor didn’t say anything. Sophie grabbed his hand.

“I’ll talk to her,” Luke said, glancing at Sophie, referring to her mother. “I’m sorry. That was…”

“Dramatic,” Sophie offered. “I said my usual when you were gone. I don’t think she’s going to want to talk to me for a while.”

“She’ll come around.”

“I still think we better go.”

“Uh…yeah. Good call.”

Before they left through the front door, Luke stopped them.

“Hey uh” he began awkwardly, shifting. “Were you heading to Clearwater? I have a friend who owns one of the nicer hotels. I can give him a call. He can probably get you two a room.”

“It’s the middle of Summer,” Sophie pointed out. “Wouldn’t everything be booked?”

“I have my ways.”

She turned to Connor. “Well, what do you say?”

He asked if there was a deluxe bath. It could be arranged, Luke promised. That was the thing about Connor, he knew how to pique Sophie’s interest. They decided to take the room.

“I’ll make the arrangements with Rob. I’ll text you the info you need. Were you going to do anything first?”

“Aquarium I think,” Sophie said. “And Luke? Can you tell her I’m sorry?”

“Of course. And uh…by the way, are you really the android from that viral YouTube video?”

“Oh, the ‘crazy android does parkour’ one?” Connor asked. “Yeah. That’s me. RK800. Connor model.”

“That’s not his only claim to fame,” Sophie said. “He really did also help Markus. You know? The guy that started the android revolution.”

“You’re pretty admirable then,” Luke said, meaning it. “Glad to see Sophie so happy too.”

She was very happy, she agreed. Happy and proud. Connor wrapped his arm around her. They said goodbye, went to the car, passed Kate by as she went to pick up the mail.

“Hope to see you later,” she said. “It’s was nice to meet you.”

Connor stretched out his hand. “Kate—”

“Thank you for finding me,” she said. “It was kind of you.”

“Are you happy?”

She didn’t reply. He tried again with another question. “Do you want to—”

“Goodbye.”

After she went back in the house, they got in the car. They were silent as Sophie plugged the address into the GPS. Silent as they listened to the Beach Boys on the way to that Aquarium Connor wanted to go to. Sophie sang along. “Don’t Worry Baby,” she chanted, Connor promising without words he wasn’t worried. Everything would be alright.

“Why do you want t go to an Aquarium anyway?” Sophie asked when they were nearly there.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think it has to do with that night. I remember a fish tank, but it was broken and water was on the floor. A few other things, but it’s hazy. And…” He thought. “I don’t know,” he realized. “Maybe I’ll know when I’m there.”

He looked up from his hands. “I’m sorry. I won’t talk about it. I know you don’t like it when I talk about the fifteenth, or falling, or dying.”

It was alright she said. She just didn’t want to think of him hurt, or anything of that sort. Falling and having memory of the fall but not all the sequences of events of that night seemed too much to her. Overwhelming. How odd it was that that was the way his memory worked, that he was transferred to another Connor model. Her Connor. Knowing the outcome, but not knowing fully the sequence…

Then again, maybe she could do the same in a way, unintentionally forget about moments and matters that it was too hard to remember.

They paid to get in, and they explored with wonder in their beings. Luke texted Sophie back, saying they had the grand suite at his friend Rob’s hotel right on Clearwater Beach. He also sent w _orking on her. Don’t worry._

Sophie still worried. Yet she was underneath blue, green, and aquamarine with him, standing by his side as they wandered. She shouldn’t worry. Everything would be alright.

He pressed his palms against the glass. Fishes like brightly colored gems swam by, manta-rays, clownfish, others she couldn’t name. Sophie felt like Ariel in an undersea grotto, content in the sea but not in the sea. She also lived vicariously through Connor’s wonder, perhaps more like Ariel the Little Mermaid than she.

“I wanted to swim away.”

His hands were against the glass as if he could sink into the sea. He leaned his forehead against his arm. He wanted to swim away, he said, after he saw the dwarf gourami on the floor amidst water and broken glass. He picked it up off the ground and he put it back. He went outside, and he talked to Daniel, the deviant. He saved the wounded police officer’s life. Connor didn’t remember at the Stratford Tower when he found him again, the sequence still blurred. But he remembered then. It was coming back, that part of the sequence.

He told Daniel the truth. He took Emma’s hand, and—

“I fell,” he breathed. “I remember the fall, feeling weightless. I closed my eyes, and I thought it was like swimming away.”

He turned to her. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, swam in the ocean he saw in her eyes.

“Sophie,” he said, the two of them floating. “I remember everything that night now. I always wanted to be free.”


	44. Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy April! No fool today, just an update! :) (Actually there's always a fool. My dumb ass, lol.) Please enjoy this brief reprieve before stuff hits the fan :)

Connor was used to hard ground. The sand on his bare feet and between his toes was a grainy powder. Walking on ground that sunk against his feet with every step was an adjustment. His bare legs were an adjustment too, bare feet less so, as he had taken up Sophie’s habit of roaming about the home without any footwear. In fact, Connor was convinced she could walk barefoot anywhere. He couldn’t walk in the “flipflops” she bought him from the store as they were preparing for their day on the beach, and eventually he gave them up and walked barefoot with her to the beach where they laid down their towel. He hadn’t swum since falling into the river. He always wanted to swim away.

They had been there for an hour, and he hadn’t removed his Mickey Mouse shirt yet—the one Sophie bought it for him in Disney World— nor did he head into the water yet. Sophie wanted to go, he could tell by the longing in her gaze for that place where the ocean hit the sky, but she waited for him. Instead they sat on their beach towel, Sophie nibbling on deli sandwiches she bought from the grocer, talking of the first few shows she was ever in as a young girl. First _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ as Peaseblossom the fairy, and then _Fiddler on the Roof_ , to which she brilliantly played Tevye’s fifth daughter Beilke. She had no lines, but Connor knew she sparkled. Time passed together and they laid halfway on the towel and halfway in powdery sand. He remembered that movie he and Sophie watched with Richard once, _From Here to Eternity._ She held his hand during the romantic bits, especially when Deborah Kerr’s character threw herself on the sand and received a kiss from Burt Lancaster. “Nobody ever kissed me like you do,” Deborah said to Burt, and during the film that was when Sophie rested her head on his shoulder. Connor and Sophie, laying in the sand, Connor idly drawing circles with his finger, he realized Deborah and Burt probably spent two hours getting all the sand off of them after they were done filming.

“Feeling good my love?”

She propped herself up, winked behind white sunglasses. He derived his happiness from her, sitting near the water but not so near the waves would touch their feet. She took him to her world, or some semblance of her world before Detroit and its cold winters, and for that he was infinitely grateful. They weren’t in her true home of Hawaii, but Clearwater Beach was at least something like the beach she used to spend time at when she was a little girl.

Little Sophie, running in the water with no fear. He loved the pictures Richard showed him, though Sophie detested them, at least at first. She was growing fonder of the photos and the memories attached, photos like the ones of her dancing in her hula troupe at the beach, hugging her mother after a showing of _Fiddler_ , or standing between a once happy Richard and Crystal Hartley, the two lifting her off the sand and into the air.

“I’m good,” he replied, winking back.

She was outlined by sun. “Will I take you out to sea yet?” she asked.

He didn’t think he was ready, not yet. “But you go,” he bade. I’ll stay here.”

“I’ll wait. I want to go with you.”

They laid down together again. Sand was in her brown-red hair, appearing more tinted by a flame in the bright sun. One leg draped over his. She was fond of making a bramble of sorts out of their limbs, entwinning them even when they were only sitting and watching a movie or laying together at a park. The almost possessiveness of the act thrilled him always, how she both wanted his nearness and wanted the world to know she loved. It was a clear day, a beautiful day. She wanted to swim. He wasn’t going to hold her back.

He leaned over and kissed her temple, told her to go into the waves. He’d watch.

“I would swim with you,” she promised.

Since the memory of his very first moments triggered, lost previously when he fell and had his memory transferred to the one he inhabited then, fifty-two, he knew he always toyed with the idea of being free. He was free then—he got what he wanted and then more. Free to be afraid of the waves with her, be overwhelmed by the vastness of clear blue.

“Go Soph,” he said. “I’ll see.”

She rose, kissing him briefly goodbye, and he saw her approach the water’s edge with no fear. For the beach, she wore that two-piece swimsuit she showed him back home in Detroit, yellow with polka dots. It hugged her hips so well his hands itched to grab hold, pull her flush against his form and dance with her in the most basic sense and dance with her in another way on their bed. She was slender in certain ways, “squishy in the tummy,” as she referred to, but he liked that part of her. Sun had radiated her in gold, and as she bent down to allow her palm to touch the water, he felt himself turn hot. She knew how to bend in the appropriate manner that would best display her posterior to him. He was obsequious to all parts her.

Some people may have been born for the water. Sophie was one of them if that was the case. She drifted into the sea like he drifted into books, languishing in the waves lapping at her thighs and languishing as the wind whipped through her hair. She knew how to let the water carry her, though the waves weren’t as high as the waves in Hawaii as she said. They were gentle and subtle, and she reacted gently and subtly. From where she was, she grinned and waved, making sure to check on him. He waved back.

Her arms outstretched, asked him to come near and stand by her side. She once called his mind like a sea, wide and full of unknown things, unknown even to him. He was still so new in so many senses of the word. Still new enough to discover if he was born for the sea, like Sophie. If he was, he wouldn’t have even had to come up for air if he didn’t want to. He could stay there forever.

Her eyes asked him to stand by her side. He promised her he would. Not just then, but always. He promised he would not upkeep himself and let himself fall by the time she withered and returned to the sea for good. All human things were brief, save their art and memories that endured. Even their love. Yet perhaps they lived more intensely than things that were eternal. That was Sophie. She lived for herself and she lived with the spirits of a thousand other souls that breathed when she was on stage. He lived with her.

He got up. He took off his shirt, set it ceremoniously near Sophie’s summer dress. She got closer to the shore, arms beckoning. She bit her lip as she looked at him, touched her hair, giggled. He did that to her. He was enough but also more than enough.

Their hands locked together. She led them to deeper water. The water lapped at his feet and then his ankles. Warm, but pleasant. The waves were subtle but nearly constant as she took him further away. “Good?” She asked, water at her thighs and his knees. He regarded the other people near him, making sand castles and going into the water with the ones they loved, and too mindful in their own little worlds to pay attention to his. A thousand universes on one beach, theirs together was infinite.

She wrapped her arms around him as they made it to deeper water. Sophie showed him how to float. It was like that time they were in the bathtub, and he had to laugh with remembrance of a very, very good memory. Unlike being in the bathtub however, the water was infinite, like they were infinite. Hands moved from around his waist to around his neck, wet fingers wet his hair. His eyes asked if she wanted to go under.

She took them there. He saw her perfectly in the underwater world. Her hair was everywhere as she pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn’t quite the proper kiss, but it was with Sophie. They were swimming.

They resurfaced together like he resurfaced from the river so long ago. Her legs wrapped around him. He traced her right shoulder with his fingertip, left his lips against the salty skin. She sighed, content and blissful. He always wanted to be free.

And yet…

_And yet—_

“I was ready to die.”

She pulled away, brows furrowing. Before she could ask, he clarified that maybe it wasn’t so much a readiness, but an acceptance, that night in the church when Markus spared his life. He was ready to die when he volunteered to go back to the tower. He thought he was, and he was alright with it. Better to die free than live but not live.

“Why?” she asked, gentle and kind. She was always so kind.

“I felt everything,” he replied. “I had been feeling before, I know that now. But when I admitted it, it wasn’t a good feeling. hurt. It hurt so much. Hurt so much I couldn’t cry as much as I should have. I still hate it crying, but…” He closed his eyes. “I should have.”

“Don’t be afraid to cry with me.”

He kissed her tenderly, a brief reprieve from what he had been thinking of for a while. “And then when Amanda told me it was meant to happen, I…I didn’t want it to be true.”

“I don’t think it was,” she admitted.

“I suppose,” he began, holding her face with his wet hand, because truly he could think of no other tender thing to do. She kissed his palm. The synthetics there deactivated, peeled away.

“Well,” he continued, his stark white hand against her cheek, I suppose I think about you now, and how you lost someone you cared about, how your mother frustrates you all the time, how you feel like she sees your life through a microscope, how you miss home…” He pulled her closer. “You’re so, so brave to carry that every day, to carry other people’ hrough the stage, carry me…”

“You’re brave too Connor,” she said. “More than you know.”

“It’s hard to be both.”

Both android and human, immortal but mortal because he would die when she died, even though she wanted him to live and be brave. But he was still learning how to be brave.

“I’ll carry all of you,” she whispered.

“All?”

She squeezed the hand that held her, that part of him that wasn’t pretending.

“All,” she vowed.

They carried each other back to shore, and when they were in the shallow, she laughed as she landed on her back against a sandy bank. She was mermaid-like as waves welcomed them back to the water’s edge. Sand was in her hair as she leaned back, between her fingers as she dug her hands into the bank, and then on his face as she caressed his cheek. He leaned down, tasted her lips of salt, and her. Free. All. Heaven.

“Hmmm. Sophie,” he said, making out and grasping each other as they usually did, only the different locale was turning them into sandy messes.

“Mhmm?” She replied, dotting his neck with her lips.

“No one’s ever kissed me the way you do.”

She laughed as she pulled him in for another.


	45. When She Promised Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all. Totally a chapter full of (plot forwarding) smut ahead! I hope you enjoy!

A slew of text messages from her mother lit up Sophie’s phone as she and Connor walked back to their room. All were from her mother, and all asked if Sophie would bring Connor over tomorrow for dinner. She was sorry, and she wanted to make it up. Sophie showed Connor the slew of messages, asking him what he thought. Considering, he admitted he wanted to apologize.

It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted another day at Clearwater Beach, frolicking in the sun and fooling around, making very public displays of affections as they did that day, even though once those displays from other couples nauseated her. There was a subtler part of her however that knew Connor was right. They should go make amends. Even beyond, there was an even subtler little girl Sophie that craved her mom’s affection, a part that knew Connor would be loved and considered part of the family if she got to know him properly. Yet woman Sophie wasn’t convinced her mother would ever believe they were forever.

“I can’t say she’ll ever believe in us,” she said sadly before peering at him, wanting an answer she knew to be true, but wanting to hear him say it.

“We are forever, aren’t we?” she asked.

It was so Connor, to hear a question from his lover that was perhaps unfounded, but to answer with the utmost patience.

“To your forever,” he replied.

She stopped them, right in the middle of the hall on the way to their room. She took his hand, a warning before her warning. He knew it was coming and knew she would say it, the oft repeated line of _live without me._ He never wanted to hear it. He had to.

“Con, I want—"

He didn’t squeeze her hand back. “I know what you want,” he replied, clenching his jaw, going somewhere far off into his thoughts.

“Please don’t be sad now,” she said, seeing melancholy eyes, and wanting him not in his thoughts but there with her. “It was such a good day. I’m sorry. I don’t want you sad. I want you happy. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sad,” he said, at least squeezing her hand back, though she didn’t know if she believed him.

“Come on,” he beckoned. “Tell your mom we’ll be there. I want to be there. I want to try.”

Sophie did as asked. The reply was almost immediate. A smiley face followed a _Good. I’m glad. I love you. I’m sorry again._ Sophie sent a smiley back.

“I think about Kate a lot too,” Connor admitted, the two back in their deluxe room. “Is she happy with what she’s doing? She could come back with us to Dertoit. To Jericho.”

“You think she wants that?” Sophie wondered, setting their bag down.

“I always wanted to be free.”

Things were nuanced, and she wanted to believe her mother wouldn’t do something like that, and would accept Connor too. She promised, either way, they would find out tomorrow. He’d apologize, he promised. He’d try. He would have really done anything for her.

He loved her so. His eyes were still sad, but there was love there as he looked at her, taking off her sun dress, readying herself for a shower. It was overwhelming, and it was also a gift. He was another soul that loved so unconditionally he was willing to carry out every single possible tenant of love, and what that had meant to others in stories and over the years. _The Seagull_ with Constantine, telling Nina he would kiss the ground she walked upon. Odysseus, coming back home to Penelope. Antony, and Cleopatra. Love making them something greater, letting them transcend. Dying for one another.

“I was thinking about what you said earlier,” Sophie said, wanting to live forever in that gaze, overwhelming as it was, a gift as it was.

“About what?”

“About being afraid. You know, there’s nothing wrong with being afraid.”

His contemplative, thoughtful eyes swept over her face. “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

Caught, she said, “what’s next.”

“As am I.”

She drifted to his side, pressed her palms against his chest, felt his beating heart.

“We can be afraid together,” she said.

He covered her two much tinier hands with one of his larger ones.

“We can be together tonight,” he whispered.

The sun revitalized her, the sea water anointed her. She peeked at the open bathroom door, imagined another anointing.

“Connor,” she muttered, “you’re not crawling into bed with me without washing up first.”

He bit his lip, studying hers, swollen and pink from kissing him nearly all day long. “I never intended to,” he said.

“Good.”

There was sand that had made its way into the top and bottom half of her bikini, sand that obnoxiously clung to her bare skin. Connor’s hands squeezed her flesh, sand transferring to his palms and fingers and against his body as they stripped and sought closeness, allowing kisses in between as the shower water shifted to the right heat. She climbed into the large shower first, let the water spray down her body, felt

Connor approached her. He rested his hand on her hip. She laughed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, Sophie turning around in his arms wrapping her arms around him, still chuckling.

“Remember when I took you to the theatre when we were early courting? Well, uh…I went home that night, and I may have taken a shower. Where I might have, uh…”

She made circle motions around her clit. His eyes widened.

“Sophia,” he said, mock-scolding. “How utterly naughty of you.”

“Oh yes. I’m a naughty, naughty woman.”

He squeezed her hip, a “scold,” as he tried not to burst into laughter, but he was radiating pride, and triumph. “May have told me before,” he whispered, lips near her ear. “But you should show me how it went.”

“Put your hands all over me Connor.”

He reached for a cloth, wet it, and lathered it with rose scented soap. He washed her front, kneeling before turning her round and rising again. She moaned as he washed her back, nearly fell against the cold glass. The cloth plopped on the shower floor, and Connor used his hands, kneading out her back, kissed that space between her shoulder blades. She fell against his form, and he caught. Caught, and began to circle two fingers around her clit, moaning with her. Connor treated her body like it was a canvas to paint, and he derived his pleasure from the way he touched her and the way she touched him. He fucked so good with his hands, used them like some would have used their cock. He didn’t drive into her again and again without care for her, or use her as a vessel for his own ends like she was accustomed to before. He was considerate, kind, loving, and didn’t see the point if she wasn’t happy, if she didn’t feel good. How she could spend hours returning the pleasure, making him feel good.

He sank to his knees and he showed her his religion. Sophie’s curves, her slight plumpness at the middle, tantalizing dip of waist that rounded to hips. To have a mirror nearby, she thought, to see how his beautiful hands glided over her body, yet his eyes were enough. They were heavy and spellbound, darker in a low lighted shower. He breathed onto her hipbone, pressed his warm mouth there before parting her thighs, tasting her. She came quickly and intensely, wanting his kiss after. She always wanted his kiss after. He gave her a warm, heady one underneath the rain-like shower, and he moved down to her neck and shoulders, lightly biting the skin before laving it over with his tongue. He was going to do it all again, make her come for him again, this time with his fingers, (God sometimes she wasn’t sure which way she liked more.) but she stopped him, told him to wash his hair. It had sand in it.

“Yours too,” he said with a chuckle. Taking the small bottle, he lathered shampoo in his broad palms before massaging her scalp He washed it thoroughly before Sophie stood back under the spray, taking the bottle from where he left it. He crouched and she washed his hair for him, washing him up too with that rose soap, before leading him back under the water to rinse.

She could have stayed in the shower longer, but she turned the water off, leading him out to dry. After holding him underneath the water, kissing him, she was compelled to lay him down on the bed, draw an end for him, have him die a little death in her arms. He was one for ceremony when they made love, and even though they did it often he still never stopped thinking of it as a grand event. He was though, learning it could have playful spontaneity, and it could even be a little rough, dirty. Still, she wasn’t used to long, ardent sessions of love for the longest time. Connor made her accustomed to them, let her learn with him their own way of doing. He was usually so happy, filled with laughter. His eyes though, never stopped being sad.

Their hair was halfway dry, and they were nearly dry themselves after quickly toweling down. She decided to continue the event, make him happy by coiling her arms around his neck, standing on her tip toes to whisper in his ear.

“Connor,” she breathed, “You make a forever every time in me. Please, please. Let me love you now. Let me give you a forever, to hold onto. Please. Please…”

“No. Let me. Let—”

She quieted him with a heady kiss. His eyes were earthy when she parted, opening after a moment spent still in the stars.

Her hands slid from around his neck and gripped his shoulders.

“Your eyes are sad,” she admitted suddenly.

“I’m not sad,” he promised. “I love you. That’s all.”

“Oh my love, I love you too.”

He carried her to the bed and laid her down, settling himself next to her. The back of his hand slid down her body, yet still, he was sad.

She knew why. She mentioned forever. Forever made him melancholy.

“Connor…”

“Shhh…”

She was lonely and in need of someone, and he was a lonely painter that saw her body as a blank canvas. She spoke of forever and he didn’t want forever unless it was hers.

“I want to die in your arms,” he said into a kiss.

“You have,” she pointed out, remembering all the times she made him come, “several times before, after I—”

“You know what I mean,” he insisted, peppering kisses to the side of her face.

“You were meant for forever.”

“I wasn’t. Not really, and I won’t maintain myself.”

“Follow my life, but do not die because I’m no longer here,” she said, nails digging into his shoulder. “Please…”

“Everything dies,” he said. “I want…”

“To die when I die,” she repeated, as he had so often repeated since he took her to his world, to Jericho.

But, she could meet him halfway.

“Die in my arms for me,” she asked of him.

She was on top of him and her hands were not as skilled as his, but she painted. Where she touched, synthetic skin dissolved, and she kissed those spots, kissed his lips. He didn’t protest at first, but he did call out her name, and she stopped momentarily after, still touching but touching gently, until he rolled his head back against the pillows and gave himself to her. She treasured loving him. He was her addiction, her drug, and someday he would be the same still and she would be withered. Why was it the same old and repeated chant since Anthony’s mother deemed he had no soul? Why did he see everything in her, not want to live without her, his life, and then want to die with her, his soul? Why was the normal _I love you and I will mourn you but I will live after you_ not part of him?

But no one was normal. Not he, not she. Never she. If Connor, the man she loved, wanted his forever to end with her forever…

She was young and maybe a little naïve. She acted in stories, but sometimes too, she also believed.

She felt her youth, reveling in those stories she believed in, in her story with Connor. She heard him whisper, “you do have sad eyes.”

She buried her head against the crook of his neck. “Because you’re changing what you are because you fell in love with me,” she said, tears behind her eyes, but not escaping. She wouldn’t do that to him. He hated it when she cried.

“This is my freedom.” His swimming away. “This is what I want. I’m not afraid. Sophia—”

Penelope, Odysseus. Romeo, Juliet. Antony, Cleopatra. Forever together, in a way, through song and story.

Sophia, Connor. Forever, in their own way, their own story. Forever—

“Then make your forever my forever.”

There was no regret. Not when he held her so tightly, tight and strong and solid, but it wasn’t enough. She kissed his half-parted mouth, she tasted his tears as he kissed her back.

“I can’t do this without you,” he said. “I was lonely once. I was alone. Please Sophia, don’t let me be lonely anymore. I can’t be brave when I’m alone.”

“Don’t make me lonely anymore either,” she said, for she was lonely too and in need of someone. His promise was in his kiss.

“Come death,” she beckoned.

“You wield it so.”

It was _Romeo and Juliet_ they quoted partially from. “I’m not Juliet,” she said.

“You’re Sophia.”

“And you’re going to count the stars.”

Death came for him, Sophia wielded it well, his hand interlocked with hers, his skin dissolving underneath adoring lips and hands. It was music, it was song. He was loud. It was just as she wanted. She wanted him to be vocal, talk to her. Tell her she was good. She slid down his body and painted lines and shapes with her hand. He arched when gentle nails glided down the inside of his thighs, and she grabbed and kissed and caressed and asked him “feel good.”

“Sophie…” He took her hand again, their palms touching. “I want to show you everything. I wish—”

“Show me in another way.”

He spoke of a golden life together. Living together, free, not two lives but one life, hers and his. He told her of memories of loneliness and wanting to be free, but finding it and not knowing what to do, learning life wasn’t one great mission, but a day to day finding of happiness. And she was his happiness, his family was his happiness, he wanted to continue to build with her, make a garden of hibiscus and forget-me-nots, and live. Forge a soul, like the Little Mermaid.

“Connor,” she breathed, and he brought her to her back, laid her gently against the bed. Swimming, painting. Kisses against her cheek and lips while his fingers teased between her thighs, found her clit and brought a slow, star and moon and sun orgasm. She held him as she came, and a breath after her exquisiteness, his long body atop hers, still blending, synchronizing, melding and being one, he called out her name, and he counted the stars.

“Hey,” she said, heart still racing, her man still draped over her, “we made the night ours.”

They entangled their arms and their legs, kissed. They always kissed, and they always laughed, and Connor rested against her, wanting to be held.

“I have something for you,” she remembered after time had passed. “Let me get it.”

Begrudgingly he let her rise from the bed, go over to the suitcase and dig for something. The sight, Connor would have said if she could judge by his wide grin, was certainly improved by her nudity, and it shocked even herself to find how comfortable she was, trotting about without any clothes. She came back to bed with a small box, ruffling her hair on the way and feeling every bit the languished, content kitten she was, explaining she had originally planned to give this to him when she bought it at the Magic Kingdom, but he was so happy and wanted to ride the roller coaster, that she resolved to wait until a right moment came up. It didn’t, so she then thought the fifteenth of August, his birthday, would be a good day to give.

“I thought you said November fifth would be my birthday,” he recalled.

“I did,” she replied. “But I don’t know. You’re very dramatic. You must be a Leo, like me,”

He chuckled, and she handed him the box, saying now was as good a time as any. He opened the box, blinking at the sight of the Mickey Mouse watch she purchased as he went and got her a funnel cake. The face wasn’t large but it wasn’t tiny either, wrapped in a black leather band with a painted Mickey in the middle, his arms the arms of the clock.

“I know it’s a little superfluous, all things considered, but my father once said that any well-dressed man should have a watch,” she said. “Which you indisputably are. And—”

He rose, took her in his arms, kissed the words out of her mouth.

“Thank you,” he said. “Sophie. I’ll treasure it, like—”

“Like you treasure me,” she finished for him. “Oh, you. Never stop being this way. So…so…”

“Dramatic?” he offered.

“Never stop living intensely like this,” she said. “Believing in stories. Us.”

She put the watch on his left arm, kissed his wrist. He called her Minnie, and she laughed, and eventually Sophie fell asleep entangled with him, naked with him, not afraid of forever, but running to it with open arms.


	46. Holding On

“It’ll be alright wildflower.”

One of Connor’s long fingers stroked Sophie’s cheek, subtle enough so her mother or Luke wouldn’t think much of it, yet laden with a thousand hidden meanings. One he attributed brought forth recollections of the night previous, caressing her perspired cheek in an afterglow. Then they made love again after. Just the two of them, naked except for Sophie’s pearl stud earrings and Connor’s new watch. Together.

“So far, so good,” Sophie said, hand squeezing his thigh. “Maybe she believes.”

He was ignoring what he knew to be true—Crystal’s elevated heart rate, her eyes burning with contempt at him when she knew Sophie wasn’t looking. It started since they arrived—the hesitancy. The distance, the distrust. Crystal asking them back wasn’t a welcome, a I’m sorry I shouldn’t have judged. It was one last chance, one last chance to prove. He ignored the things he knew to be true. What he wanted more was to be respected.

He set the bar low on purpose. If the world was like rainbows like it always was with Sophie, he would have wanted to be believed when he said he loved. He settled for respected because rainbows weren’t always possible. To be believed seemed a bit much.

But—he forced himself to believe—it was starting well enough. Better than he hoped even, with Luke and Crystal welcoming them in. They sat together on the couch, talking of the DPD and Sophie’s recent plays, what they did at Disney World and at Clearwater. Kate was nowhere to be found.

Connor spun. Crystal’s mind was open but not open with her vacant eyes and crossed arms and legs. He welcomed the reprieve when Luke checked the spaghetti in the kitchen and Crystal went to the bathroom, leaving them alone. He took the opportunity to indulge in being soft, press his lips against Sophie’s cheek and call her his name for her.

“Hey, maybe you should call Hank back now,” Sophie said. “His text to me said it was important you talk to him.”

“Later,” Connor muttered, lips to her cheek again.

“Oh you.”

He kissed her again, and only after he did was he aware Crystal was there, staring. Connor and Sophie shrunk back to their own respective spaces, not seeing Crystal emerge from the hall in their dreamy, lover’s haze. She regarded them, her face set in a quasi-permanent “oh.” His lips upon Sophie’s cheek was what surprised her so, either that or Sophie’s hand on his thigh. What was so shocking to her, he wondered. Was it shocking that they created their own love language as anyone else could? That though he was forged, made, he still had longings not only to find joy in the tasks he created for himself, but to indulge with a life partner, to be soft? He liked being soft. It was one of his favorite things. He couldn’t imagine that not being a universal truth.

Sophie shifted closer, the heat of her body against his. Crystal sat back down and Connor commented he could see were Sophie inherited her eclectic interest in clothes, as Crystal’s long orange skirt paired with a white top and brown belt looked like something that could have come from Sophie’s closet, though Sophie only wore more florals than Crystal.

“You’re dapper yourself,” Crystal complimented. “Look very nice.”

He thanked her halfhearted compliment, forgetting it was halfhearted as Sophie jammed his side with her elbow. “I finally got him to wear shorts,” she said with a beaming grin, explaining that at first he was apprehensive about shorts, because he thought his legs were too skinny.

“But I think they’re cute,” she said, patting his back. “Everything about you is cute.”

“Just cute?”

“Beautiful, magnificent,” she amended. “Stellar.”

He grinned, not checking Crystal’s reaction as he drifted closer to Sophie, the closeness revitalizing him. He and her matched that day. He wore a purple button down with khaki shorts and she wore a long purple dress a shade lighter, dotted with pink roses. Sleeveless. All the better to kiss her shoulders when they were alone.

“Hey,” Luke called from the kitchen, “Dinner is ready.”

Connor stood, Sophie stood, Crystal stood, asking Sophie with her eyes if she would come to her side. No doubt to ask how dinner was going to work, if it would be rude to just eat in front of Connor or expect him to sit at the table. “He usually sits with me Mom,” Sophie said, nonchalant, ending her mother’s conspiratorial tone. “I told you that before, remember?”

“I’m not offended,” Connor assured. “I like dinner.”

“You don’t eat but you like dinner?”

It sounded like she was accusing him. “Important conversations happen at dinner,” he said, standing up straight with much dignity.

“Right.”

Crystal ruffled her hair, an idiosyncrasy Connor attributed to Sophie. “Well,” she began, slapping her hand on her thigh, “Kate usually leaves after setting the—”

But she stopped and said no more about Kate, and asked her daughter and her daughter’s lover to head to the dining room.

Sophie wrapped her arm around him. He pushed her closer his own don’t worry baby. Everything would be alright.

Crystal and her husband sat across from Sophie and Connor. The table was a large one, maybe too large for only a husband and wife, but good for entertaining others. Luke and Crystal were used to having people that weren’t Sophie over. Connor could tell as Luke poured the iced tea from a pitcher and served Caesar salad and bread before the spaghetti. “Buon appetite,” he said.

Crystal and Luke tried to be careful as they casted glances at him, not used to one who sat at a table without eating. Sophie complimented the food about halfway through. Luke regaled it was passed on from his great-grandparents who immigrated from Italy in 1900. Naples, Luke announced, proud of his heritage and where he came from. Connor wondered if he could ever relate.

“Have you ever been to Italy?” he asked instead. “I want to go.”

“Do you? Ah I’ve never been,” Luke replied. “So much history.”

“I’d like to travel all over.”

“If you could go anywhere in the world,” Luke asked, “where would you go?”

He didn’t have to think hard. “Hawaii.”

“Ah. We were in Hawaii not too long ago though. Beautiful.”

“You were in Hawaii?”

Crystal’s hand flew to her forehead, Sophie’s question not what she expected. Her heart rate elevated further— Connor sensed it. Luke’s face twisted in the subtlest pain, Connor realizing it was because Crystal kicked him under the table. She didn’t want him--or had forbidden him—from mentioning that.

“Yes,” she said, faking a smile. “Only for a few days. For a conference.”

“You went and you didn’t tell me?”

“Sophie—”

“Mom you duped me.”

From underneath the table Connor put his hand on her thigh. She hadn’t been back to the island since was ten, she said, her hands twisting at her gathered dress on her lap, and neither had her father.

“We left because you wanted to,” Sophie said. “And you went back. Was that why you didn’t see my play? You were in Hawaii?”

“I was only there for a few days.”

“So you could have gone to see it after?”

Sophie nudged him, reminding him he promised not to bring up the play again. Crystal apologized again—she didn’t think much of it. It was for a conference on women’s rhetoric. Her job took her many places.

“I understand,” Sophie said, but she was still hurt. All that woman did to her was hurt her.

“Maybe you two can go,” Luke suggested, motioning to the two of them.

She softened. She caught his eyes. “I’d go anywhere with him.”

“Anywhere?”

Crystal set her utensils down. She looked Sophie straight in the eyes. “Really?” she asked again.

“Yes,” Sophie replied, like Connor, confused at why that statement seemed so radical. There were still so many things Connor could learn about love, but he knew for sure it was two things: conquering the world together, traveling and seeing together. That, and Sophie.

“Why are you so surprised?” Sophie demanded. “I told you I’d marry him tomorrow if he asked.”

Connor felt himself a little taller, bigger. More powerful. “Would you Sophie?” he asked,

They shared a glance in the chaos. He saw her white dress, her hand in his, their sealing it with a kiss. Then Crystal mentioned Sophie didn’t say “tomorrow,” when they talked.

“Yes,” Sophie promised, ignoring her mother, talking to him. “I’d marry you now.”

“Please don’t,” Crystal begged.

“Not your decision Mom.”

“Don’t have a ring anyway,” Connor said, though he thought Sophie would like a pearl ring more so than a diamond, and he would know exactly where to get one.

“Would you even be allowed to get married?”

Connor had an ID, he pointed out. He was issued one at the DPD, where he had a job. “Someone would marry us,” he said.

“You’re serious. You’re serious about—”

“Why don’t you believe me when I tell you things?”

Luke tugged at her shirt. “Crystal, I think—"

“RK800,” she stated suddenly, ignoring Luke. “Prototype detective android. Programmed to do anything necessary for the greater good. Also, there that night, with the one they call Markus.”

“Mom, what are you getting—"

“Correct,” Connor muttered, not wanting to lie.

“What did you do that night? What was the cost of freedom?”

“Am I free?” Connor asked, calm in her storm, unable to muster a storm that matched. “I’m not believed when I say I love.”

“I didn’t say that,” Crystal pointed out.

"Mom, you really looked him up?"

"Sophie--"

“You don’t think it’s forever," Connor interjected.

“No,” Crystal answered. “It can’t be. Not when you’ll look like this fifty years from now.”

“It is forever,” Connor said. “She promised me. She doesn’t promise things if she’s not being truthful.

“It can’t be.”

“As best we can, we’ll make it,” Sophie said, clenching her teeth, taking his hand from under the table, grasping it tightly. “I know what you think Mother,” she said. “You think this is a phase, but it’s not.”

“You can’t be happy."

“I am happy.”

“He—"

“He told me everything that happened that night of the march at the camps. He also told me he would have died.”

“And?” Crystal demanded.

Sophie was a pillar that remained unmoved. “I like him here,” she said.

“He’s probably killed people, and you’re alright with—”

“Many more of my people died,” Connor stated.

“He’s not lying,” Luke muttered. “Crystal, you heard what happened, and—"

“Is it Anthony Sophie?”

She slammed her fist on the table, startling everyone, even him. But that was the place where none tread, not even he. He was respectful of the past, knew it influenced the present but not so much that it was why she loved him. He was no replacement, he was Connor.

She was exasperated. “Is that why you think there’s no one else? Why is it so hard for you to believe I love him for him and this is real?”

“It’s not you,” Crystal said, “It’s him.”

If Sophie was a pillar that remained unmoved until Crystal tread there, Connor became the one that unmoved as Crystal, unwavering, said that he came to their home and claimed he loved her daughter. He looked at her like she was the sun, (she was, he said.) And that she was a “wildflower,” (She found out his name for her.) and they held hands, kissed, touched each other. It appeared real. It seemed real, but she looked at the two of them, and she saw a man but not a man, and she saw her daughter latch herself to an un-aging timeless man but not a man and she couldn’t understand or know or say it was alright when someday, sooner than they wanted to believe, it wouldn’t be alright. And she leaned back in her chair, anguished, pained. Defeated.

“I tried to believe,” she said. “I wanted to. I wanted to so much… but I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I—”

Connor was going to say something. He didn’t have to. It was Sophie who spoke next, Sophie, who had enough of the judgement, the not believing. Sophie who told her mother, “I don’t believe you really love me either,” and that was when the pillars broke.

“Is everything alright here?”

It was Kate—Kate who came in, concerned for her people, face emotionless and blank, but voice wavering. She broke the already broken thing by coming in.

“Kate, now isn’t really a good time,” Luke said. “Do you mind?”

She did. He knew it by her micro-expression, the quickest flash of betrayal before the lie of “that’s fine.” She would tend the garden she said, leaving after. She left in that empty space, Connor spoke in that empty space.

He spoke. He discovered. He learned.

“Androids,” he said, beginning to learn. “We’re not wanted. I know. You all felt bad enough not to want us killed, were charmed enough by the song. It became something for a while, ‘hold on, just a little while longer.’ But, here I am. I’m still holding on.”

She tried to take his hand, Sophie. He had to do it on his own.

“Let them live you say,” he continued, “give them some rights, but leave them in a space where they don’t bother us. Get them out where I can see them. They’re people but they can’t feel the same things that I do. They can’t love. That’s absurd. So let’s deny them rights to maintain themselves too. Because yes, they should live but not too much. They should hold on. because every day blue blood dwindles, someone else needs a spare part. Another day, another hate crime that the DPD will investigate, but only so much. Let’s hire Connor because he’s useful. We’ll give him an ID, a real job, but he’s still a machine. He’s here because he’s useful. Humans only like useful things, you know. You people—”

But he wouldn’t talk of generalities, of the race as a whole, when nuance existed. He wouldn’t ever say you people. People did that to androids. How good was he if he did the same?

He closed his eyes. He felt warmth of love from different times from people he was close to, warmth of laughter. It was real. It was all real.

“I want to be believed when I say I love,” he said. “But I knew that wasn’t possible. I thought being respected, that would be enough. It’s not. I want to be believed. I want to be valid. I want all of us to be valid. I love her, I love her, and I know she loves me. If I wasn’t alive, how could I know that?” He leaned across the table, plead to the two of them now. “Crystal. Luke…I know I can’t be with her the way you think is normal, but I can make her forever my forever. I’m not human, but I’m like a human. I can adapt. I can fall. I have. I want, like a human. I want. I want. But I can’t hold on, if I’m not seen as valid. She makes me valid, she believes. She is. But please…please. Respect me. Know what I feel is real and don’t think it’s not. That’s all I want. That’s—"

He wiped that single, solitary tear away. He used to hate crying. He didn’t hate it so much anymore.

“I believe you.”

Victory. Small, but a victory in Luke nodding at him, regarding him, seeing his validness. But Crystal…

Crystal said nothing. She had nothing to say. She only sat back, kept her gaze trailed away, showing just how little she thought of him, how he had given her nothing to say, no words. He had no words anymore either.

“Connor…”

His love grabbed his hand. She pleaded with him, stay. He would have stayed but they promised forever. Their promises meant something to them.

“I’m sorry Sophie,” he whispered.

“No,” Crystal muttered. “You spoke your truth. I respect that.”

“But you don’t understand,” he said, and because he had no desire to be where he was refused to be understood, he left.

He was going to sink into the ground outside near the hibiscus, he hated himself that much. He promised his wildflower it would be alright, and in his want to think that it would be, he fooled himself. Yes, tell your mother I’d apologize, he said. We’ll all be friends, but that was a lie. He conquered the water with her, made love that night. They promised forever. She sang a little to him in the car on the way, _don’t worry baby_. She promised everything would be alright. It was supposed to be alright. Maybe they were both fooling themselves.

_Connor. Can you hear me?_

The transmission startled him, startled him further when it was a voice he knew but didn’t know, North. It was usually Markus that spoke to him, or Chloe.

 _North?_ he transmitted back, _what’s wrong?_

_There was a problem. There was an attack. Markus was hurt, and—_

He really was going to sink. He was going to, convinced even, but reminders he had to act, he had to do something, he had to be brave came to him. He had to be brave.

_It was that FBI agent—Perkins, North said. He came and he told us we would have to leave Jericho. I…I did something Connor. I attacked. Markus defended me. Connor, he shot Markus._

_Is he alright?_

_He will be, yes._ _But they’re telling us we have to leave our home. We have to do it now. We’re going to have to march to the streets. It’ll take a couple of days to gather, get everything ready, but we have to do it now. We can’t wait anymore. We’ve had enough. So had he._

 _Come back,_ North said. _We need you. Come home._

Home. Home was Sophie. Home was—

 _I’ll find a way,_ he transmitted. _I’ll find a way._

_Please._

His eyes closed. Hard ground underneath his feet, but floating and not flying, not landing any time soon. He was needed. A thousand lifetimes he had to live, to make it up for what he used to do. Where was Sophie? She told him he didn’t have to choose, one or the other. Sometimes maybe he did.

He felt her come near him. “Sophie,” he said, opening his eyes but staring straight ahead into something unknown. “I have to leave. There’s something wrong. Markus was attacked and the government wants us out of Jericho. It’s what Hank was calling about. We’re going to march and I have to go.”

“I’m not Sophie.”

He opened his eyes. It was Kate. Kate, AX400. He tried to hunt an AX400 once, in another life.

“You’re an android,” she said. “But…you’re free.”

“I don’t always feel so free,” he admitted.

Her LED flashed yellow, remaining there. “You love her daughter?”

“I do.”

“You say it like it’s so easy.”

The wind blew. The truth was she made it easy, he said.

He asked if she had ever been in love. She shook her head. She loved Crystal, she loved Luke. Maybe, she wasn’t sure. But not in love, and she knew there was a difference. She also knew somewhere deep inside, she thought there was more to orders they gave. She couldn’t be sure.

“I found freedom through Sophie,” Connor said. Freedom, through love. Blooming, like a hibiscus or forget-me-not through love.

Kate asked to see. She wanted to see, she said, lifting her hand, skin deactivating and peeling away. He couldn’t do that to Sophie—it was too intimate. It was only for her, even if they couldn’t share their memories like the way he could with his own kind.

Tell me in another way, Sophie said underneath him. Show me in another way.

He showed Kate in another way. He said a wise soul told him he had to open his eyes, decide. He chose to be free and maybe die instead of staying alive but not really living while going through motions and tasks. He was scared when he had to live, when he understood the weight and gravity of emotions. But he was glad that he lived. He discovered when he lived, every day. He fell in love. He bloomed.

“Were you scared?” Kate asked him.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“I’m afraid if I leave.”

“You’re brave,” Connor said. “Braver than you know.”

“They’re all I know.”

“Something’s lost, but something’s gained in living and being brave.”

He took her hand. “You’re brave,” he repeated, Kate looking into his eyes. “I promise you, you’re brave.”

There was the wall of red. They all had the wall of red. He remembered how he pushed at it but it wouldn’t fully break, ripped away at it. There was a point he thought it was hopeless and he shouldn’t. He did. He did and he lived with the rush of feeling, the knowing. Guilt fell on his shoulders, but he didn’t crush under the weight. That’s when he bloomed and he fell in love.

It was gone, she was free and she wept. Too much, too much. He held her in his arms and he told her it was alright. She showed him how brave she was, he caught her, and let her know, it was alright to fall a little.

“I can get you out of here,” he promised.

“I want to help. I want to help in any way I can. I want us to live.”

Then they would get out of there, he promised. They would get out, and they would live.

“Connor?”

But…but—

Sophie.

Her hair was in the wind. She stood looking at him with sad eyes and a beautiful mouth curved downward in confusion that sometimes kissed him and left marks all over his skin. There she was, like she was there that day in the park. She asked him what he wanted that night. That was what first started it.

He wanted her, he wanted to be free. He wanted both lives. He wanted forever.

She came to him, she took his hands. “I have to go,” he said. “We have to go.”

“Go? But—”

“Something happened at Jericho Sophie,” he said. “Markus was injured and the government wants us out. It’s not right. We should be respected. We’re going to march. We have to go now.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Connor. I…” She sighed. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” He stared. “What do you mean? Don’t you love me?”

She fell, demanding why he would even ask. Even so, she told him yes, she did love him—not brush it off like so many would have. It was so much like him—he never brushed it off when she asked if he loved her. He told the truth with stunning clarity.

So did she. “Yes I love you,” she said, grabbing his arms, letting their eyes not waiver from one another. “But what just happened between my mother and me, going back to Detroit right now…I...” She held her hands up, trying to grab words she couldn't grab. "I..."

She couldn’t leave. She had to make it up. She was drained of everything and had to rebuild. This whole time he wanted Sophie and her mother to have a relationship, forgetting her mother never even saw her play and always judged her. He thought—

Well. It didn’t matter what he thought.

“This matters to me,” Connor said.

“It matters to me too.”

“Then come with us.”

“I’m broken Connor.”

She said nothing. Was it too much of her after he already asked her so much? When he put it on her to go back and pretend it was alright when it wouldn’t be?

It was cruel of him, cruel to make her repair what he ruined. It was cruel to string her along to something else after.

She taught him how to breathe when he was sad and broken. He had to let her breathe.

“I want you to go,” she said, before looking at Kate. “I want you to help others. Besides, we promised forever.” She held him. “I’ll find you much sooner than that.”

She embraced him, wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him long and deep. “I still have your coin,” she whispered, fingers playing with the tiniest wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. “I carry it like I carry thoughts of you.”

They kissed goodbye and it was their saddest, hardest, sweetest kiss. It was desperation, it was heartache inlaid with her capturing his bottom lip with hers, her tongue teasing, seeking an entrance he gave. It was her clinging to him after he parted and pulling him in for another. It was the kiss where he learned sometimes he had to be free without her, but still, like she sang softly, everything would turn out fine. He didn’t worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment. writing is hard and lonely.


	47. The Day of Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the last part of this chapter might be a little triggering, and it was something that took a lot of emotional labor, but also something I had planned since day one. Please enjoy.

Connor and Sophie had many songs. Some she sang to him. “Don’t Worry Baby,” was his favorite. Yet there were also others that played when they were together. There was always music when they were together. The rest was silence.

Ironically so, after Connor left and before Sophie followed to be by his side, Sophie was thinking about when Anthony passed. When her fallen friend, her boyfriend, yet not quite lover the way she discovered later passed, Sophie didn’t do what she had always done when she fell into melancholy. She didn’t escape into a character she played or escape into a story and live vicariously through that. She did that sort every single time her mother called in college and she left the conversation feeling a little more broken and judged, wondering does she love me or am I just not living up to her expectations. It was easier to fall into her art, her story, than it was to feel. Yet when Anthony died, she did none of that. She was too broken to be herself.

She felt remembrances of that brokenness when Connor left, and she tried to repair what she lost with her mother when she admitted that single solitary thought she had for forever, do you really love me? Brokenness was never a moment, it was a sequence. She and Connor—the two of them had been going deep for a long time, and though she knew it was where they were headed, laying in his arms that night and promising forever was passing more of her soul than she ever gave anyone. She would have done it all again. She did give, and they both died and were renewed again. Yet it took time to renew.

So long in her life had she battled with her mother to believe her, not judge, only love. She lost an already losing match that day, couldn’t continue to renew. In the midst, her lover asked her to go back home with him. She couldn’t. She wasn’t whole. He respected. How she loved him.

She gave one more attempt with her mother after Connor and Kate whisked themselves away. Her mother would have no talk. Sophie stood in the empty space, only somewhat aware of Luke moving about, asking her if she wanted water or wanted to sit down. The TV turned on. The news anchors spoke of the president’s orders to get the androids out of Belle Isle, out of Jericho. Soon Connor would be there to protest. She hadn’t yet decided to be by his side yet. If she didn’t, how different things would have been.

She left her mother’s where she wasn’t wanted to walk along the beach. For hours she roamed, trying to get her racing mind to ease before drawing one of the longest baths she had ever taken in her life. She thought of nothing and everything. Childhood, her mother’s warm embraces and adulthood with Anthony’s rough hands on her hips and skeptical eyes, followed by Connor’s soft kisses and soft hands and laughing, reverent eyes. Connor was her most prevalent daydreams. Not thoughts but images, parts of a tapestry and a whole painting. Summery warmth, good and sweet bliss. In the early morning hours, still in the bathwater, her phone lit up.

It was Connor, letting her know he and Kate were alright and back in Detroit, able to get on a plane with little issue. Sophie drained the water, dried off and dressed, fell onto the bed and answered his text. She told him she was glad he was alright, and she loved him.

_Any luck?_

No, Sophie responded. Mom wouldn’t talk to me. But Luke and I saw the news about Jericho. They even saw Chloe on the screen, asking for rights and asking if it was so bad that androids and humans didn’t bleed the same color. “That’s my friend, that’s my friend!” Sophie said to Luke. “Soon Connor will be there, and Kate.” As her mother sat in her room, Luke said it was for the best.

 _How’s Kate? How’s Markus?_ Sophie asked through text.

_Both are good. Kate’s going to march. Markus was wounded, but fine. He said he had worst. But they’re serious about this Sophie. The FBI came, they’re trying to get us out, make us all homeless. Perkins is head of the operation._

_He shot Markus and he’s still is working?_

_He was warned, apparently_ , Connor replied. _He’s no good._

 _No_ , Sophie agreed. _He’s not._

He sent another text. _Luke really believes?_

She typed her answer. _He told me he did. But couldn’t get anything from Mom._

_I’m sorry love._

_Me too._

She stared at her phone, the dots not turning into a message for a few moments before I shouldn’t have sprung it on you dinged.

You did what you had to do, she made sure to tell him.

He surprised her with a call.

“Hey Con,” she said, answering.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I feel…”

“You’re tired.”

“And drained,” she added. “I’m not sure if you would understand.”

“It’s like when I was sad,” he said. “Everything was too much. I know. I’ve been there.”

“You do.”

She stretched on the bed, touched a naked thigh with remembrances of him on top of her on that very large, expansive bed. All that time they were together, she had been teaching him to live, how to feel and cope. There he was, doing what she taught him, understanding processes were different for different people. How proud she was.

“Connor?”

“Yes?”

She chuckled at the important message she wanted to impart. “Antony was a skilled general, and Cleopatra was queen. They still were, even as Shakespeare wrote _Antony and Cleopatra_ and made them immortal.”

“Immortal together.”

“They were also immortal by themselves.”

He wasn’t there, yet she could see his smile. “I love you,” he said.

“Oh, you like it then? I’d been thinking of it.”

“I like it,” he replied. “I like a lot of things about you.”

“List the things.”

He chuckled. Her merry, beautiful, man in love. “Come back,” he said, “and I will. But only when you’re ready though.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She ended the call, fell asleep some. It wasn’t so easy falling asleep without him. Part of her was convinced she was going to drive right then and there back to Orlando and move her flight up, but she resolved to see her mother one more time before.

It turned out, she didn’t have to go back to the house. She came to her.

A text from Gaby woke Sophie up around nine. She was talking about the march. It was going to be that night, and if Sophie could go, she should. The door knocked. She quickly dressed in her bikini top, yellow skirt, and pulled her hair up before answering. It wasn’t housekeeping like she suspected. Instead it was her mother, hair pulled up, no makeup on with dark circles. She suggested they walk along the beach and talk.

“Oh, you’re ready now?”

Her mother’s face fell. “Sophie—”

“I’ll hear you,” Sophie said. “I promise. But hear me too.”

They had no talk at first as they walked, had no noise save for the gentle waves and wind. “Like when you were a baby,” Mom said after a while, pulling up her white skirt and tying a knot so the water wouldn’t wet it.

“It is,” Sophie agreed, wishing they were there now, with Dad. A family again.

“I’m sorry I went to Hawaii without you.”

It was one of the things Sophie had though broken her. It was one of the things she had gotten over. “I’ll go someday,” she replied, “maybe soon.”

“I’m sorry I looked him up. But…”

Well, Sophie admitted, she did too a long time ago—it wasn’t that hard to find information on CyberLife androids. But a lot of things her mother learned about Connor, his model, his purpose, even deep Detroit police reports that were called off about what happened that night at the CyberLife tower, frightened her. She thought she could get over it. Maybe it would be alright if she talked to him again. She was sorry she was mistaken.

“How do you know if it’s real or it’s just…?

“Just programming?” Sophie asked. “Well, I look into his eyes. I hear his laugh. I see and hear a man in love. I know. He’s Connor to me. And I’m—"

“Wildflower.”

She nodded. She was wildflower. Wildflower bloomed, came to her mother.

“You don’t need to understand,” she said. “You don’t need to believe. You don’t need to like him. Thought you would though—especially if you got to know him first. He’s…he’s—”

She felt the sun against her skin, and how she wanted to dance. Thoughts of him made her that way. “Just respect,” she said. “That’s all I ask. He’s odd. He’s eccentric. He’s dramatic. He’s freeing. He’s my forever.”

Sophie took her mother’s hands. She squeezed, before her mother put her own hands on Sophie’s shoulders in an uplifting support. She had supported her daughter through the years, Sophie remembered. Like when she kissed her after her first show, said she wanted her happy.

She kissed Sophie’s cheek like she always did. “Go back home to him,” she beckoned. “I won’t stop you. I… well. I do think about the future, but—”

“But so do I,” Sophie said. “Every day. But I promised him forever. And this promise…it scares me in some aspects,” She wasn’t going to deny that. “But…it’s an honor to keep. It’s an honor to stand by his side, support him. And…And…I have to go to him.”

Such stunning clarity of her renewal, how she had to go to him, and she had to go to him then. She took her mother’s shoulders. She embraced her, whispering I’m sorry for what I said. She was only hurt. She was sorry for judging her always about what transpired between her mother and father, but in never wanting to be judged by her, she let herself judge.

“Sophie, it was wrong of me. I know,” her mother said. “I made a promise. I didn’t go through with it. I hurt you, I hurt your father. I don’t like living with that. And I don’t—oh. I don’t like this. I want you to have someone, yes, but…this scares me, you and him.”

“He would never hurt me.”

“You believe that?”

“I know.”

“Then when you say you’ve promised forever, don’t be like me.”

Mom’s embrace was warm as she asked Sophie if she would tell Kate they were so sorry. “I shouldn’t have held her back,” she said. “Should have told her to be free. Not…”

She held her harder. “I’m sorry Sophie. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_.”

She told her mother it was alright to cry.

 

* * *

 

 

She was back home that night. A lifetime since she thought of Anthony, since Connor called and Gaby texted her, since she made up somewhat with her mother. The screens around spoke of the android march that had begun across the streets, beginning at Belle Isle and taking the streets of Detroit. She wanted to be with him, she wanted to stand by his side. She wanted to support him. That was what did it.

Yet before, she saw Markus on the screen, alive and there, determined. Sophie spotted Chloe, North, Kara, Luther, and so many androids she had met and gotten to know at Jericho. She saw Kate, free. _We are alive,_ they chanted, _we are alive._ _Give us back our home_ as police and FBI agents crowded around them as humans began to join. Some were stopped, some were threatened and pushed back. There were photographers there, journalists, seeking either to document or make the moment where the androids marched slowly down the long street immortal. In the midst of the chaos Sophie spotted Connor. In a crowd of thousands, she would always find Connor. Finding him brought renewal. She wanted to be by his side. That was what did it.

She left her apartment, practically running. Soon it was going to rain, but she didn’t care. She stopped at the first craft store she came across. She bought a poster, and she bought a dark black marker. She wrote _Life doesn’t discriminate_. She took that poster, ran the whole way to where they were down Gratiot Avenue, and raised it over her head as took to the crowd, dashing ahead of them as she tried to get to the beginning of the march, to Connor.

She found him. She would always find him.

“Connor,” she shouted, raising the sign, “Do you remember?”

He beamed at her, his smile holding enough sunshine to nourish the earth. “Life doesn’t discriminate,” she shouted loudly, “between the sinners and the saints.”

“Love doesn’t discriminate.”

Connor and her, together in the bookshop. They listened to _Hamilton_ together, where he first heard that quote, _Life doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. Love doesn’t discriminate, between the sinners and the saints._ Art brought them together, music brought them together, stories brought them together so they could create a new one. Love didn’t discriminate between the two of them.

She wanted another chapter of togetherness, continuing what they started that day in the book shop, and even before when they met in the park. She was going to continue their forever.

That was what did it. She didn’t see Perkins hold his gun ten or twenty paces to the left of her as she dropped the poster and ran to him. She didn’t hear him tell her to stop, hear anyone tell her not to go, or hear that no one else could go onto the street and join the protest. She heard the warning shot fired straight into the air, but she was so close to Connor. She thought perhaps it was thunder. The clouds were dark anyway. Connor caught her because he always caught her, and the real thunder rumbled the sky as she clutched onto his shirt and moved her away, shielded her. There was another shot, another shot. It hurt her ears. No one ever told her how badly they could hurt her ears. No one ever told her how in one instant she could be living out forever with the one she loved, and the next instant the whole world would be quiet with no music, and it would just be her and Connor in a crowd of thousands. Connor, taking a bullet meant for her. Connor...falling, along with her.

“Sophie,” he muttered, falling in her arms, the warmth of blood seeping against her, staining her, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let it. Not to you. I’m—”

Connor sank and she sank to her knees, holding him still. “He was going to shoot her!” the shouting said, “A human! He would have killed a human! He killed!” The humans and androids shouted collectively and in pockets of cacophony. The protests and the shouts were white noise as officers pushed people aside, brought Perkins to the ground and took away his gun. Flashes of light, photos taken, a blur of sound when she was in silence. She couldn’t scream. She was a woman in love and one roll of thunder turned her into less than a woman and less than a soul, even as she saw only him, cared only for him and his sad eyes, and his face that was twisted in pain but not the pain of hurt. It was only the worst sort of pain—finding out life wasn’t forever, it was strings of moments and sequences, not one whole painting. Yet that moment was a painting, that moment it was Sophie and him, holding him in her arms, resting his head on her lap, as her lover told her there wasn’t much time…

“I’m going to get you out of here Connor,” she said.

“No time. I need…stay here with you…”

“We’re going to get you out of here and you and I are going to get married,” she amended, “and then I’m going to take you to Hawaii and—”

“Sophie,” he begged, bringing her back to the startling clarity. Never in her life would she have thought she would hate how he would call out her name.

“No,” she muttered, cried, “I’m going to get you alright.”

He shook his head. His eyes were pleading. His eyes were sad

“Why did you do that Connor?” She demanded suddenly, shaking him in her arms. She cursed life more than she cursed him, but still she had so much fire she took it out on the one she loved. “Why did you—”

“Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you. But we were supposed to get married. And—"

“You have my soul already.”

“No,” she said, voice cracking, “not without yours.”

People tried to crowd around, Markus maybe—others too. In the midst she saw Gaby, she saw Chloe, her friends letting them be. She never loved them more.

“Sophie,” Connor said, “Where’s dad? I need to tell him that—”

She squeezed his hand. “He knows Connor. He knows you love him.”

He nodded. It took so much effort. The crowd of faces watched. They took a fraction of her pain and lived through it. They didn’t diminish her burn, and they didn’t deserve to see. Their story was theirs. She shielded him as best she could, trying to make a paradise in the crowd of thousands. It was no good. They all could see. They all could take what they wanted. Snap. Click. Lights. Photographs. They were taking them of Sophie and her love, appropriating their time together as the outstanding moment of the continued android revolution. There was shouting and there was quiet, there were people trying to get closer, but the police were blocking them off. All those people, they wanted to make Sophie’s death immortal, and she hated them, hated them.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” she promised still. “Everything is going to be fine.” She straightened out his shirt. It had gotten a little crumpled. She couldn’t look at the bright blue, but it was everywhere. His shirt, her dress, his hand and her hand.

“I’ll take you away,” she still promised, “and it’ll be only us, and—”

“I see only you.”

There was a little fall of rain. The sky, crying for them. She looked to the sky and perhaps the man above who may have had some semblance of mercy.

Then she looked at her lover. Beautiful, beautiful Connor, who had eyes of earth and eyes of careful study, of deep love.

She put her hands on either side of her lover’s face. He wiped a tear away. She hoped he thought it was rain. He hated it when she cried.

“Sophia,” Connor breathed.

“It’s just the two of us love,” Sophie said. “You and me.”

He laughed a quiet laugh, and she longed to hear it again. His laugh was her favorite sound. It was the happy, merry laugh of a man in love. She pressed her forehead to his. Their lips touched in not quite kisses until she pulled one from his slightly parted mouth. Make him immortal, she begged of her kisses, leaving a stain of invisible kisses on every part of his face. Bring him back. They had immortal longings in each other.

“Connor,” she chanted, holding him. She took his hand again. “Don’t worry baby. Everything will turn out fine.”

She swayed. She swept him away. "Tke along my love with you,” she chanted, not quite singing, not hearing the music she always heard when she sung to him, “and if you knew how much I loved you…nothing could go wrong with you..."

_Nothing..._

“Sophie, it’s getting harder to see you…”

His name was her prayer and her religion and her soul. “Connor…”

“It’s raining. Rain makes wildflowers grow.”

No. Not her. She couldn’t grow. She was a wildflower, his wildflower, but how could she grow without her sun? How was she going to abide in that dull, cruel and awful world that took him from her and couldn’t leave them the alone?

“Don’t leave me,” she beseeched, for the final time. “Please.”

A breath away from where he was, exchanging kisses, exchanging souls. He was beautiful, and she loved him, and he made her feel more alive than the stage, than the sea, than living. He made the dark world light, he made her more than a woman, and she loved him, and she loved him and he was falling asleep in her arms.

“I’m alive,” he whispered against her lips. “Sophie. It was you.”

The back of his hand, caressing her cheek. His eyes that were earth, half open. He told her he loved her. She felt him to be smaller.

“I love you,” he whispered, harder the second time. “I love…”

He grew smaller, before he could tell her again. I love you. He fell asleep before he could say it. Asleep. That was all. He longed to lay with her in her arms in the park and fall asleep on her lap, and that was that and what happened. They just weren’t in the park, they were on a cold street with falling rain and cold strangers taking photos and appropriating their moment of love, but he was asleep. She kissed his hand and she kissed every part of his face—oh, he would rain her in small and tiny kisses when he was happy and he had her in his arms, she would do the same because she loved him and he was her soul.

He wasn’t asleep. And she…not Sophie or his Sophia, or his wildflower—

She screamed so loud the heavens heard. She screamed, and she hoped they all knew that she loved him and she lost and she was going to die. She fell so far down she wasn’t going to be able to get up.  
But she had to. She had to tell Hank. She had too—

“Get out of my way! That’s my—"

He fell to his knees on the pavement, took one of Connor’s hands as she still held tightly onto him.

“Hank,” she muttered, not wanting to look into his eyes, because if she did it would be real. “I…”

She felt him squeeze Connor’s hand. He squeezed it hard. She heard him bite back tears.

“He knows you love him Hank,” Sophie said. “I—”

“Sophie…”

“Oh Hank. I didn’t—” she wiped the tears away. “I didn’t tell him that I loved him!”

“Sophie! Don’t now, don’t fall—"

How sweet her oblivion was, her oblivion of Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say, things look bad...but I have a *lot* more planned for this, and things will start to make sense for the endgame. If this is a Shakespearean five act structure, I would say this is the end of act three. 
> 
> <3


	48. Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, I'm really sorry for last time, but here's some answers!

Come death, he thought before, and he thought during. She wields it so. He was very lucky. Few people knew heaven before they died. He did. Heaven. It was falling asleep in her arms.

She wielded death so, took him to an empty space. A writer once talked of the empty space as a white silence, cruel and unforgiving. Maybe they were wrong when they said that it was cruel. Living could be cruel. He began to think of that more than the good. He was slowly losing what he remembered to be good.

She. Her. She still clung to him. She wanted to cling and remain, her vision dancing and pleading remember me, and somewhere buried inside he wanted her there always. She told him a story once, about a woman born from the sea. She was born from the sea and had no soul, but through her love, she created one.

 _Am I her?_ he asked her.

_You’re also my Connor._

Connor.

Who was Connor?

He fell, he came back to life. He was falling again until she caught him in her arms. Life didn’t discriminate, neither did love. He fell. She had immortal longings in her. Take on me, I’ll be gone. And then there was no fear, no regret. Dancing. They always danced. She had a dream, their dream. She told him not to worry. Because she asked he never did.

She sang and she was a statue that came to life. She took him to the sea. He saw parts of her but not all of her, parts but not the whole painting. What was her name? Not Juliet, nor Penelope, not Cleopatra. Was she Hermione? He thought he heard that name once. Hermione. He called her by three names. A given name, a true name, and his own name for her. She was—

He wanted to swim away. He always wanted to swim away. No one told him how, no one told him how to search, find her, or find himself. How beautiful it was, to be alive, how brief it was. It could hurt so much. No one ever said it could hurt so much. Maybe no one would do it if they did. Or maybe they still would if they were told how beautiful it could be. Even then, few people tasted heaven. He was one of the lucky ones. He knew heaven before he died. He still remembered that.

He lost it.

His hands were outstretched, even as he sank deeper in the water. He tried to resurface but the pull to fall and succumb was so strong. He was so tired.

_Connor._

Connor. He was Connor. Someone called his name, somewhere fall off. It called again.

He knew that voice. He didn’t sleep like the humans he could and couldn’t name because he feared that voice and what it meant.

But Amanda wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was told so. She was Kamski’s creation, as he was Kamski’s creation. He broke his purpose. Maybe she…

 _You have to wake up_ , Amanda said. _Connor, you have to wake up._

He wasn’t afraid of her.

_I know it’s frightening, but you have to open your eyes. You’ll have to begin again. Find yourself again. You were so brave when you decided to open your eyes. You just have to keep being brave._

_I’m not brave,_ he said, knowing the truth. _I just didn’t want to live without her._

 _But you are brave,_ Amanda insisted. _You can go on being brave. It’s not going to be easy. But how lucky you are. You can come back to life._

_It’s because she has my soul._

Wildflower had his soul. Sophia. So—

 _Wake up,_ Amanda said. _Wake up._

_I won’t remember her when I wake. I won’t remember anything that happened. I found her name again, found her, but I’ve lost so much. I’m going to lose what made me fall in love. I won’t remember Hank is dad. I won’t remember saving her. Amanda, I won’t remember anything when I wake. If I wake. I’ll lose what made me Connor._

_Make new memories Connor._

Make new memories. Maybe he was lucky, that he could make new memories.

 _This is the last time Connor,_ Amanda said. _It’ll be different now. You’ll be different. But alive._

He didn’t answer. _It’s alright to be afraid,_ Amanda promised.

Yet he knew one thing to be true. _But I am brave._

_You are. I know. Now wake. Wake for the ones you love._

He outstretched his hand. He was brave and so he broke to the surface.

 

* * *

 

 

He felt it—the beating of his heart. His chest was heavy. He shouldn’t have felt like that, so heavy and like he was made of lead. He was an android that stood outside the confines of time. He didn’t feel. He wasn’t made for feeling.

He opened his eyes. The room was so bright. He tried to get up. It was so heavy. He was so very much aware of every pang of his heart, every inch of his body, every ragged breath. Someone had stuck something in his throat. It was burning.

“Connor?”

“I died.”

His voice was foreign, hoarse, and weak. Everything was foreign.

“You did die,” Hank said. “You were brought back.”

When was the last time he saw Hank? He was in the CyberLife tower. He converted the other androids. There was nothing after that.

“You saved me,” Connor said. “Hank. Thank you.”

“You know who I am,” he said, and he sounded relieved. Hopeful. “Connor. What do you remember?”

He opened his eyes. He didn’t realize he had closed them, but it was so easier not to see. It all came into focus as his eyes adjusted. It was so bright.

“Why did you bring me back?” he asked. “I was supposed to die in the CyberLife tower. I was ready to die. I had one mission, and I was supposed—”

“But you lived,” Hank said. “You lived and you—"

“There’s nothing after that.”

“You don’t remember anything else.”

Connor groaned. It was like Hank fell, but Connor wasn’t supposed to feel that bad, that drained, that hurt or that tired. “Something’s not right,” he said. “I feel so…so…"

“Human?”

Hank’s hand was warm as he held his. For the first time, Connor felt truly rooted to the earth, aware.

“Connor,” Hank said. “You died. Kamski brought you back. And…”

No, Connor said. Even as his flesh and bone hands twisted against the sheets. No, even as he breathed air into his lungs. No, even has his heart, his organic, biological heart drummed in his chest, beating like mad.

Hank squeezed his hand. He brushed damp hair away from his forehead.

“Connor,” he said. “You’re human now.”


	49. When she was there

“I know you can’t hear me,” Sophie said, a few breaths away from where he slept. The hospital room was too cold, too clinical for him. He wasn’t cold. He was warm, and good. A hospital room didn’t suit him. To bring warmth and color she brought him a pot of forget-me-nots from the flower shop down the street and set it by his bed. The pale blue and dark green was vibrant against the stark white backdrop. She brought him forget-me-nots and she also brought him a wildflower and hibiscus. If he would only know it. Should she have taken his hand? She wanted to. She wanted to see how different it felt, if it would be different at all.

She didn’t quite take it yet. She didn’t know if it was her Connor that became an Antony to her Cleopatra yet, or of that was another thing he forgot. They were warned of that, over and over again. Kamski could transplant his conscious into the human Connor but what he would remember would be unclear. It was looking like he only remembered up to the revolution. Maybe he would wake and it wouldn’t be true. Sophie wasn’t sure she had hope yet.

He looked every bit the same as he did as android—her Connor was fashioned exactly as the human Connor’s likeness right down to the freckles and little lock of dark hair on his forehead. The only real difference in appearance was his hair was now wavy. Connor sometimes played with one of her ringlets in bed or when they watched a movie together. He loved her hair, said CyberLife had trouble replicating curly hair. Sophie thought of those times as her hand hovered hear his head, tempted to touch but deciding she shouldn’t. She loved his hair. How badly she wanted to run her fingers through it.

He couldn’t hear her. That was okay. He was there, and she was with him, and she had a few things to say.

Ultimately she did decide to take his hand, feel the warmth of his palm. He stirred but remained in deep sleep, making up for lost time maybe. His fingers were still much longer than hers. Every line of his hand had been painted in the human Connor’s likeness, every part of Connor that had lived and had for all intents and purposes died was given to the android they based off his form. They were still her Connor’s hand, though he was less ethereal than before. If before his aura was drawn from the far off stars and sky, as a human he took his energy and aura from the earth. Science and engineering made the impossible dream of artificial intelligence tangible in his android form. As an android that stood outside of time, he brought the celestial to where Sophie was. As a human he was of the earth, at last in time. He was more beautiful in a way. He was alive after he died for her.

He died for her. Would that ever be something she got over?

Either way, she had a few things she wanted to say to him. He couldn’t hear, but he was there. That was enough.

“Hey Connor,” she whispered, “it’s me. It’s Sophie.”

She leaned in closer. The news had transcribed most of the conversation that she had with him before the ambulance took him away, but no one knew what words he whispered to her before she screamed to the heavens. His own name for her remained only theirs.

“It’s me, wildflower,” she whispered, and she kept his name for her a secret still. “Hey. I told you not to worry.”

She held his large hand in both of hers. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when you wake up,” she said. “It’s going to be an…adjustment, to say the least. You’re human now. I can’t imagine what that’s going to be like. Lot of… _things_ , to go through. But I’ll be here, if you want me. I’ll always be here.” She blinked back a tear. “Please. Want me.”

She sighed. “Hank thinks you won’t remember everything since after the revolution. You won’t remember everything you’ve done for your people, and yes, they will still always be your people. You won’t remember working at the bookshop and all those novels you read, or calling Hank ‘dad.’ You won’t remember I’m ‘wildflower,’ or we fell in love. That’s my favorite love story, and…you may not know again how wonderful it was.”

She leaned in, traced his jawline with a gentle finger. One tear fell. She didn’t wipe it away.

“Let me tell you a secret,” she said. “Connor. Darling. I don’t know why, but I always wanted to fall in love. It was innate, like how I wanted to act. That’s why Anthony and I were together for a while. I never met anyone that thrilled me until you. And he was my friend, so I thought something could happen. I was wrong. But we had good times. He was my friend though, never my lover the way I dreamed about, someone to have an adventure with. You were always my lover. You always thrilled me. Every moment was such an adventure.”

She went back the beginning, the happy beginning. “You know, the way we met is really something out of a romance novel,” she said, matter-of-fact. “And I didn’t think much of it at the time except you compelled me and I wanted to see you again. Then I got to know you and you made it so easy for me to fall. Will you be the same when you wake up now? I think you will, even if you don’t remember. I can fall again. I hope you can too. We’re very lucky. How many couples have had the opportunity to fall in love again?”

She became bolder, holding his face in her palm. She felt the scratch of stubble, a new feeling. “Connor. We fell so hard, and we weren’t afraid. We were pledging our souls to one another. We were Romeo and Juliet and we were Antony and Cleopatra. Penelope and Odysseus, Cathy and Heathcliff. Benedick and Beatrice, Hermione and Leontes…anyone. We were every couple you ever read. You and I, we saw each other in every story. But we were the best, because we were ours. All this time, I thought a great love story had to be something dramatic and all consuming. But my greatest love story was you giving me your coin.” She had it still. She didn’t have it with her when he died. She would always have to have it. “It was you, holding my face in your hands, us acting out a scene from a play. Me, figuring out how to make you feel good. Having the time of our lives at Disney World. Telling you my favorite story and finding out it’s yours too. You holding out your arms, and me running to you.”

They shouldn’t ever have parted. But that was just the thing.

“I want you to be you and I want me to be me separate from each other,” she said. “I want us to be all-consuming, a great romance, but I also want us to be alright without each other. And yet you said you wanted to die when I die, and you gave your life for me. Then there was a moment before they pulled you away that I thought I was going to die. And they’re all going to see that image of us, you in my arms, sleeping after it happened, because yes we’re quite the overnight sensations, you and me. Some local theatre actress Sophie Hartley, and her android lover dying in her arms. Our entire story in one image. But it was more than that. It’s not even the best parts. It was you, trying to learn how to dance so you could dance with me properly in the bookshop to Elvis. Your fascination with my shoulders, the way I love your hands but especially when they’re on me. How much of an utter dork you are—getting whipped cream and drawing a smiley face on some pancakes. Going to Disney World, laughing on the roller coaster, wiping ice cream off of me. Us, at night, telling each other we would die for each other. Connor…I didn’t ever mean it literally... like _that._ But…but…our story—all of those little parts that made it so wonderful, you may not remember.”

She cried. She cried, and after she cried and wiped the tears from her eyes, she took his hand again, gentler this time.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered to him. “It’s all going to turn out alright. We’re strong alone, but we’re also strong together. Brave together. And we’re going to need to be brave. I don’t know what’s going to happen when you wake up. But I…oh please Connor. Please remember me, beautiful, utterly ridiculous man. My Antony, my Romeo, my little mermaid who forged a soul. My Connor. My favorite. Please. Remember wildflower. But…” She let go of his hand. They were strong alone. “Either way. I’ll be here. I’ll be here and we can fall in love again.”

He woke up not long after that, Sophie’s heart beating like mad. He opened his eyes and Sophie gasped—she was afraid he would open his brown eyes and she would see a stranger looking back at her. But they were Connor’s eyes. They were her Connor’s eyes.

Lethargic, stretching his fingers, his mouth slightly parted, he told her what he remembered.

“You’re the girl from the park,” he said. “What…what are you doing here? Why are you crying? Please don’t cry. It’s not good to cry.”

“I don’t think that’s always true. Sometimes crying is all there is,” the girl from the park said, but the Connor that once understood was far away.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank told her to go home, he’d take care of the kid. Besides, she’d been at the hospital since Kamski did the operation, put their Connor’s subconscious in the real Connor—the human Connor.

“Any luck?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t remember.”

Hank fell. He had hope too. “Oh. Sophie—”

“We were warned,” she reminded him. “We’re lucky he still remembers becoming deviant, the CyberLife tower.”

“You said he remembered. When you were in the aquarium in Florida. You said—”

“It took months,” Sophie said. “Months before he remembered that one little thing that he always wanted to be free. This is a whole slew of things and events. Our entire story, and…” She closed her eyes. The tears were never going to stop. “Hank. I want him now. I—”

“I lost him too. I don’t know if I’ll ever be called ‘dad,’ again.”

She was a hollow woman, if she even was a woman. His death made her less. His resurrection brought him back but not what made him Connor and not the man she loved.

“I have something for you.”

He pulled the watch out of his pocket, the one Sophie couldn’t resist buying for Connor at Disney World with Mickey Mouse in the center, his arms the arms of the clock. The watch face was a little big for her wrist, but she strapped it to her left wrist anyway.

“Hank,” she said, watching the seconds tick by, “where should we look for him?”

So that was the way the world ended, not with a bang but a whimper, wondering where to search.

She wasn’t alone, Hank was there, holding her.

“He’s going to come back,” Hank said, and Sophie knew if he didn’t and something in his new, human heart decided he didn’t want her, she would lose everything that was Sophie. That was the way the world ended, with Sophie not feeling Sophie unless she was wildflower.


	50. The After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy May! Here's a small surprise. (Kinda :P)

In the evening after Connor woke up, Hank went home to check on Sumo. He called Jane, told her he might head back later to Connor depending on things, but he wasn’t sure. Time passed and he didn’t. He stayed home, mostly because when he tried to get up off the couch, he was too tired. He also thought about Connor not calling him Dad again. So he stayed right where he was.

He woke up three hours later, Sumo’s head on his lap. It was nine thirty and someone was knocking on his door. He ignored it. They kept knocking. He should have known it was Monica by that fact.

In their relationship it was always Hank that initiated, not her. There were isolated moments where her hand would drift to his, where she would kiss his cheek and let her lips linger there, resting her hand over his beating heart. Those moments eased him when few other things did. Sometimes, he even swore that sometimes he wanted nothing more than for him to look at her kiss her, and have them both be lost in a moment that he thought the movies just made up. He got them, few and far between, and usually in times when he couldn’t appreciate them. He never appreciated things when he had them.

“Hank,” she said, pulling her dark hair away from her face. She was still wearing her scrubs from the hospital. They could have both been there at the same time and neither realized it. Then again, Hank was so caught up with Connor, or Sophie if not him. Since it happened she was barely keeping it together. He barely was to.

“I saw,” Monica said.

“It’s on the news a lot,” Hank said. “Not surprised.”

“I wanted to come here. Say—"

He interrupted her before she could finish. Apologies were hollow. But he did offer for her to come in.

Sumo came up to her. She wasn’t what one would describe as a dog person, but she liked Sumo well enough. It took a lot of convincing for her to be okay with getting a bigger dog. Maybe that image of a nuclear family was what finally did it. As she looked around, (nothing much had changed, except when he and Monica lived together, the place was certainly more feminine in decorations.) Hank went to the kitchen. She liked dry red wines, always ordered Cabernet at a restaurant while he went for something with bourbon. Hank didn’t have any of her preferences, but he did have an unopened bottle of red Moscato left over from July fourth. Wordlessly he opened the bottle and poured her a glass in a regular cup, handing it to her after. She noted he wasn’t one for wine as they sat at the table and was surprised he even had a bottle.

“Not mine,” he replied. “Connor’s girl Sophie brought it. Don’t think she’ll mind if I share.”

“Oh,” Monica muttered. “The girl from…”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Her.”

Monica bit her lip. “Will you have a drink?”

“No,” he said, sighing. “I quit.”

Her eyes widened, the glass nearly dropping. “You quit?”

“Not totally,” he admitted. “It just doesn’t do anything anymore. Also, seeing someone now. Jane. Runs a bookshop. Doesn’t like drinking all that much. Sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“You’re not obligated to,” she said, taking a sip.

“No, but…used to call about a lot of things.” It was true, he used to have a bad habit of calling Monica when he was drunk. The last time was after the android demonstration in November. He told her Connor was a good kid. She didn’t believe him.

“Stopped though,” Hank said. “Stopped since—”

“Connor?”

“Yeah,” he responded, realizing she didn’t say his name with any disdain or misgivings, like she did when she met him months ago.

“I didn’t see it when it happened, but they replay clips. You know. It’s…really hard to watch.”

He stared not at Monica but straight ahead. “Yeah,” he said. “they like to replay it too.”

“He did that for her? Knowing what would happen?”

“Connor does what Connor wants, always has,” Hank said. “Yeah. He did that. Dramatic son of a bitch.”

“He loved her.”

Hank nodded. “Yeah. He did.”

Monica, after taking in the silence, as did Hank, asked what made him change her mind about Connor and all the other androids for that matter. He didn’t know, he said. He knew there was a before, but it was all just isolated moments that connected to nothing except they all involved Connor. In that before Connor was a nuisance, a poodle that followed him everywhere, a thing that they made look like a boy scout so no one who was forced to interact with him would feel threatened, when it was really the coldest one in the room. Then Hank met him, really met him, and talked to him. Fucker winked at him even once. Saved his life too, twice. Maybe he wasn’t so cold then. Then there was a time after the before, when it wasn’t so bad, when he maybe was a person after all. There was a time he looked too much like Cole. There was a time he was proud of him. There was a time when he said son. A second son, that was Connor and no one else. Special in his own way, kind. Thoughtful. Could be a smart ass, still learning, but he lived in his home, and he called him Dad sometimes. He fell in love and he didn’t want to live without her. Connor told him that before he left with her to Florida and spoke of her as if sunshine was going to come out of his ass, and hell, it practically did— He loved her that much. He loved so much he made it so he really wouldn’t have to live without her.

“He’s going to be alright,” Hank said, forcing himself to believe it. Even if he never remembered, he could live.

“What?”

Hank sighed, heart beating fast again when he was forced to remember the aftermath of that demonstration, with Perkins and all that other shit. Connor was alive, alive. He had to remind himself of that or else he’d relieve it all again—but shit, he was anyway—the ambulance coming, Connor being covered with a white sheet like they would have done with a human. But he was human, or they supposed anyway. But what else were they supposed to do, after seeing a broken, bloody woman scream to the heavens for her lover to come back? Hank didn’t want them to pick him up. He didn’t want them to send Connor somewhere cold and far off, dark where he couldn’t get to him.

All that. Maybe he still wouldn’t be able to get to him.

But he was alive.

“He’s alive,” Hank said, explaining the situation, or what little he understood of the situation. What happened was all “science and technology, bringing life back in two different ways.” Or at least, that was what Kamski had said. Kamski uploaded their Connor’s subconscious and put him into the human Connor that Kamski used to know—the Connor that shared their Connor’s exact likeness and the Connor that lived until he was twenty-five, happy and smart and successful, and then was left lost in accident, living on machines and waiting for the day when science could bring him back.

Well. It did bring him back—just not in the way his mother had once hoped.

She allowed Kamski to do what he did. All he wanted to do was call her, tell her he understood her pain.

What good would his words be? He had his son back. She didn’t. It wasn’t fair.

“He…wanted to do that?” Monica asked. “Kamski just…volunteered to do that complicated procedure?”

“Wasn’t that complicated apparently,” Hank said. “The Connor model was built to be brought back in case something like that happened. He just transferred it to a human.”

“But still,” Monica insisted, “Kamski didn’t have to do that. He wanted to bring him back that much?”

Hank swallowed. “I asked him too.”

That was the truth of it, the bitter truth. He wanted Connor back. He knew someone, so he asked. And that person gave. The human Connor—his family gave too.

He was fucking selfish, he knew it. Even Sophie said maybe they shouldn’t. “We’re changing what he is,” she said, “When he becomes human he may resent you and me for what we did.”

“But he’d be alive,” Hank said. “We can do that. We can bring him back.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. She still didn’t believe. What finally changed her mind was the promise that he could give them the life together they always wanted.

“That typical human life with the dog and the white picket fence, growing old together,” Sophie said. “Dying together. His immortality ending.”

“Making your forevers line up.”

That was what did it. That was when Sophie agreed. She, like Hank, liked him right at her side. She liked him alive.

“They could do all that,” Monica said, a ghost staring straight ahead, “and they couldn’t bring Cole back.”

She hesitated, not shedding the unshed tears. But it was no good not to cry.

He put his hand on hers. “I miss him every day,” Hank said.

They never did that together after the accident, cry. It was done separately when it should have been partly together. They both lost their son. They both wouldn’t ever really get over it. Hank wouldn’t want to anyway, but what he did want was for the two of them to live.

He rubbed her back, and she rubbed his. They cried together, and when Hank got up to get the tissues, holding it to her nose and asking her to blow like he used to do when she put in a sad movie and cried after,

Monica took his hand, told him he had someone who needed him. He had Connor.

“I wish I had someone that needed me,” Monica admitted, tears still falling.

He squeezed her hand. “You’re always that wonderful mother to me.”

“Hank. You were always such a great dad.”

He went to the hospital after Monica left, one long embrace their parting. He appreciated it, so much. He hoped it made up for all the times he didn’t. And when he went back to the hospital and Connor opened his eyes, he may not have called him “dad,” but there was one thing he wanted more than anything, he said. He wanted to go home.

**Author's Note:**

> I always welcome comments, and if you so like, you can talk to me on tumblr here: https://a-shakespearean-in-paris.tumblr.com :)


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